


Winter's Grasp

by covertCalligrapher



Series: Cherry Wine [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A slow burn romance, Anxiety, Complete, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, NSFW, Slow Build, definitely NSFW now, emotional tension, enemy was pretty onesided but still there, extra scenes, happy relationship, mutual trust and understanding, title is cheesy because i myself am cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 125,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertCalligrapher/pseuds/covertCalligrapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands were always warm, she found. The small crisscrossing scars that shaped his knuckles were dusted with fine blond hair, some old and others fresher than they should've been. Her life had been a palace surrounded by gardens, a windowless building filled with sharp swords, a castle built into the mountainside. His had been harder, carved into those hands, more sharp swords and fierce duty but at a different end than she was. It wasn't supposed to <i>be</i> this way, Templars and mages didn't fall in love.</p><p>(A novelization of the Cullen romance built around the given scenes and comprised of extra ones.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. C'est pour toi que je suis là

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m perfectly fine, _Commander_ ,” she nearly spat. The way he slipped into familiarity, her name and not her title, had her grasping for the little power she had previously possessed. She felt the sudden, stabbing fear of being in the room with a knight rush through her. The air was thick like water and tasted of magic, heavy with lyrium and the terror of the burning sword that he wouldn't admit was _there_ stood between her and him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, I have numerous screenshots of my Inquisitor. [Here's](http://i.imgur.com/lpU4eqX.jpg) just one so you get what she looks like, I'll probably also post more because I literally have over 50.
> 
> I play her as mostly blunt with some sarcasm, and typically pick the angry options when presented.

Winter blew through the trees and whistled keenly through the mountains here. The grand valley was like a bowl of ice and silence, wind that only screamed if the head was turned a certain way. Southern, dark, and cold, the air had teeth and it sank straight into the chest when you breathed in. It tore viciously at a body until it didn’t really seem like tearing anymore, but a more of a pleasant burn. It froze sweat into little biting crystals, and yet the wind burned hotter than summer air against the face. The wind had fangs and it bit deeply until toes turned black and bones seemed to freeze into ice, refusing to let go.

And she so did  _love_  this weather.

Clara Trevelyan watched as her mouth made small puffs in the thin mountain air, the clouds of heat dissipating quickly. The sun had set so long ago, and she had yet to feel the snow sink into her bones, but she eagerly awaited it. Her calves burned with exertion, the mark on her hand sputtering weakly with every pulse. It fizzled and cracked in time with her heartbeat, the Fade gripping and tightening up her arm at each dull _thwump_. Her sides burned with every inhale, sharp pain digging into her lungs as she struggled to suck in feeble breathes. _Broken ribs_ , she knew, but with the cold pressing down on her four different ways, it was hard to muster up the energy to be more afraid. The snow fell harder now, and she pulled her hat down more tightly over her ears, cheeks screaming in pain as she poked the frozen flesh.

She pressed on though, the memory of the cookfire she had found seared behind her eyes. As good as _finally_ freezing to death would feel, there was a certain sort of defiance in pressing on in spite of the broken ribs and twisted ankles. Faces swam before her eyes instead of the swirling snow: her advisers and her companions alike. Pangs of regret beat against her skull harder than the hail could. The Commander's touch burning lyrium bright against her arm as he asked her to not get herself killed bounced around, replaced the sounds of the wind in her ears. Her own confused regret at his tone and the grim set of his mouth was setting in her limbs right next to the cold. She grappled with the stubbornness to press on and show him that she wasn't so delicate, that she could lead and _win_ , and the numb want to just curl up in the snow.

Clara cursed the snow as it took her down for the last time, foot slipping on a snow-buried rock. She fell down onto her knees, body buckling and planting her face right into the snow, hat flying away as her hair tumbled out in a red, damp clump. Lungs aching for air, she tried to breathe but only succeeded in sucking in snow. Feebly, she tried to turn herself over so she wouldn't suffocate, but she was too weak for even that. Her limbs had already begun to finally freeze completely, the cold-burn settling in so fast she nearly cried with the relief that it was almost over. Reaching anger pinged softly against her head at even being deprived of the dignity of a different death. She just wanted to  _sleep,_ and then everything would slip away--

She screamed as someone yanked her out of the snow, the sound lost to the burning wind. Frozen joints snapped loudly and words whistled past as Clara sucked in the cold air again, chest on fire as she coughed. She could hear others yelling, but was unsure if it was actually other people, or just the echoes of her own screams.

A body hard from plate and mail crushed her close, cold against her skin even through her layers of sodden cotton. Fur tickled her nose and glanced over her face, lightly dancing over the thin layer of ice. Her muscles screamed their frigid protest and she felt the shivering set in again, entire body shaking violently as she was carried awkwardly through the snow.

All in all, if this was dying, it was much more horrible than she had been lead to believe.

She passed out from exertion soon after getting lifted and awoke some time later in a tent that was too warm. The slit that lead outside showed a dark stormy sky, and she was unsure whether or not it was day or night. Clara groaned under the heavy weight of the blankets pressing the splint on her rib cage harder into her. A woman with a soft voice nearby heard her weak fidgeting and leaned in closer. 

"Are you alright, Herald?" she asked quietly, words damp in the stifling tent. She smelled of altar incense, the scent pulling memories of flashing swords and burning devotion into the Herald's mind.

"I've been better," Clara muttered, voice too weak. Distant arguing drifted in through a flap in the stifling tent. She tried to shove herself up and was rewarded with burning pain that shot from her legs to her chest, wounds protesting angrily at the disturbance. "I feel like a mountain fell on me."

Mother Giselle had the humor to laugh at Clara's weak attempt. "Only you would make light of what happened."

"I'm _not_ making light," she snapped as she shoved blankets off of herself, feet itching to be away from the Mother.

"Stay down just for a little longer," Mother Giselle said soothingly, pressing Clara back into the cot.

She fought back valiantly, but found the cold had sapped most of the energy out of her. Grumbling her acceptance, she lied back down. "Just tell me what happened. Why are my advisers trying to cause another avalanche?"

"Such manners on such a lady,” she chided, shaming Clara. The Mother tucked the blanket back under her, speaking thickly in the flickering air. “The Commander found you face-first in the snow. He brought you back here and you have been asleep for hours now, though not as long as we had feared. You have a strong constitution.”

Clara was silent for a moment, breathing in the words that she did not say:  _for a mage_. Years of being the frail flower, mocked as  _slight_ ,  _fragile_  by so many Templars, so loud in her head she could still hear the echoes of them when others spoke of her.  _Such surprising endurance, she holds it together so well, so well_ behaved _._

“They’re bickering amongst each other, afraid of what to do,” the Mother continued. “Had you not returned, I fear that the Inquisition would have been lost completely. Infighting threatens as much as Corypheus does right now.”

“Thank you,” Clara murmured. Venom crept slowly in her words, but it was chased by the actual thankfulness that she felt at being kept from freezing to death. She hated that unintentional tenderness.

Mother Giselle smiled kindly down at her, the light wrinkles on her face crinkling with sincerity. Clara looked away, the Mother’s warm brown eyes reflecting her own blue ones strangely. Her hands tightened on the blankets covering her and she relaxed them, pain throbbing dully from her frozen fingers and aching Mark.

The Mother stayed with her for some time, discussing what to do. Her words of reassurance and pious musings had Clara’s stomach twisting uncomfortably, her guts cramping horribly at the shame of her defeat and disappointment. It grew to be too much, her insides screaming, and she stumbled from the tent, ribs shifting uncomfortably and ankles protesting. The army,  _her people_ , didn't make it any better. It was a hard weight in her gut, having so many relying on her. Her feet itched at their faith and devotion to her, wanting nothing more than to just lie back down in the snow.

She was saved from their thanks for burying their homes and possessions by Solas. He slid up silently and beckoned her to follow him. As she followed, she saw his feet, toes pale but unfazed by the cold. He hardly made a print in the thin ice while her thick shoes punched deep holes.

After he told her of the origins of Corypheus’ power, she wasn't surprised. Her anger reared up, ugly and whip-fast, cracking against Solas. He took it and waited for her to calm and apologize. She did.

“There is something, though, that I can do,” he said evenly, hands held behind his back.

Clara felt her face burning in the cold air, still embarrassed over having lashed out at him. “Like what? More wonderful news?” Her voice came out harder than she intended but it was solid, commanding. The acidity she managed impressed her.

He didn’t rise to her bait. “A place for the Inquisition. A place that the magister cannot destroy, as he destroyed Haven.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. When she didn’t say anything, he sighed and answered.

“It has stood for many centuries, lost in the Frostbacks. If you give me a map, I can lead us there within a week.” He nodded at her and turned to leave. Though he’d only known her for a few months, she could tell he didn’t want to deal with her moods. She was angry and mean and spiteful and she called out to him as he left, the fire he’d lit fading as he moved away.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He nodded and continued to walk, her following after he had vanished under the ridge of the hill.

* * *

 

“How are you feeling?”

Clara looked up from her log in front of the fire at Cassandra. “I’m fine,” she said, though perhaps too harshly.

Undeterred, Cassadra sat down next to her. “We were all worrying we had been too late when we found you in the snow,” she said. The way she spoke, it sounded more as if she were reading a fact off of a report or stating something as mundane as the amount of rain the crops had gotten this season.

Clara grimaced, mouth pulling into a tight frown. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, hunching over slightly as she pulled away from the Seeker. “I’ll try not to land face-down next time,” she said, tone chilly.

“There will not be a next time,” Cassandra said with iron resolve. Clara felt her lips twitch up ever so slightly at her voice, not a smile but a reaction to the Seeker's definite voice. The accent in her voice was heavy, words thick with resolution and sharp like so many swords. Vivienne might hold the moniker  _Madam de Fer_ , but where Vivienne was solid and frank like iron, Cassandra was strong and unmoving, hard and resolute. She didn’t bend until the fire got too hot, but she knew she could form into something better.

“You can’t know that,” Clara responded because she  _had_  to test, had to push to see what promises Cassandra was willing to make that she couldn’t keep.

The Seeker was quiet, the silence kept from being too thick because of the crackling fire. Eventually, though, she stood and looked down at the Herald. “No, that is true. However,  _you_  cannot afford to be so fatalistic.”

And she walked off. Clara was left alone with the hard-packed snow and the whispering flames, and it was  _nearly_  as bad as when she almost froze to death. It was too warm by the fire, the ice in her melting too quickly for her to be comfortable. Groaning in disgust, she stood too fast from the log. Her vision swam before her for a moment before she regained herself and managed to drag herself to her tent. A squire saw her as she passed and stammered awkwardly before trying to bow and kneel at the same time. He nearly fell face-first into the snow.

“You,” Clara said, pointing. “Can you bring me something from the food pit?” Her voice wasn’t strong enough, she didn’t say it with enough _force_.  _“Now,”_  she snarled when he didn’t move.

He hopped faster than a rabbit and _immediately_ icy regret stuck her in the gut. She finished the walk to her tent and let herself fall into one of the hard wooden chairs that had been dragged in there for her. It was dark and cold, the cloth of the tent glowing a dull red as the numerous fires outside illuminated it.

She shivered and took a deep breath, her gloved hands coming up to rub her face. Her fingers brushed lightly over the faded scar crossing over her left eye, old and as obvious to her as if it had been a rope. She moved the hand to her tangle of red hair, feeling the brother to the scar under the wet strands. Old disgust welling up, she brought her hands away from her face and squeezed her eyes shut, banishing the remembered abuses that had put those marks on her from her thoughts.

The squire returned fast, too soon, she wasn’t ready with a small apology for being too cold to him, so he left without it. She stared dully at the venison stew he had brought. It made damp curls of steam in the air and she pulled her gloves off the feel the bowl.  _Too hot_ , she thought, setting it back down. Heat was the last thing she needed right then when her face was burning.

As Clara waited for it to cool, her skin began to crawl with that odd familiarity. He came up fast, heavy boots crunching right through the ice and snow, a gentle curse that he probably thought was too quiet for her to hear. It probably would have been too, had she not become so accustomed to listening for him when her skin started to prickle with that lyrium burn from him. A shiver ran through her as he hesitated outside her tent, the dull thrum of old lyrium giving the air a metallic taste.

“You can come in, Commander,” she called.

She could tell he stiffened at having been identified so easily. He still took her invitation, however, and entered.

“Herald,” he said as he just stood there.

Her tent was taller than many of the others. Being the Herald of Andraste gave her certain perks, and apparently palatial tents was one of them. The Commander still had to stoop to stop from hitting the rooftop.

“Commander.” She fought to keep herself cool with him, the shock of her last frozen thoughts being about disappointing him still shaking her.

The Commander looked somewhat pained to be standing there. He looked at the ground, hands fidgeting as he grasped the pommel of his sword. “I just wanted to check if you were alright,” he said eventually.

“I am intact,” she replied coolly, gesturing to herself. “Do you want to sit?”

He considered it for a moment before nodding. Sitting this close, in the small space, it was so easy to read the old signs that screamed  _Templar!_  The feel of lyrium shivering in the air, the face he made whenever she used magic in front of him, the way he clutched at his sword. Bull had been right; you didn’t need to be told, you could _tell_.

"You look... unkempt," Clara stated stiffly, noting the thick stubble covering his face. He had gone longer than usual without shaving, dark smudges making his eyes look sunken. She bit the inside of her mouth for caring enough to notice.

A gloved hand came up and scratched his cheek, face turning surprised as if he hadn't expected the hair to be there. "I ... haven't really remembered lately."

Clara shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter." She stirred the stew, steam spilling out as she broke the top. "I understand you are the one who found me." It sent her stomach clenching to think that he had gotten over that shield of duty long enough to carry her. She wondered if he'd struggled with her weight, or found her easy to carry. She promptly reminded herself that it didn't _matter_.

He nodded, brisk and sure. "Yes, I took point on the search party. You were frozen nearly to death when we found you."

"It wasn't that bad," she replied absently though she knew it had been. The warm feeling of breathing in too little air clung to back of her mind like old paint. She sucked in a heavy breath and let it out to remind herself that she was still  _alive_.

She looked and saw him frowning at her. “What?” she asked.

“Your ribs were broken,” he said softly. “Your shoulder was dislocated and your ankle was sprained. All we saw when you fell was your hat flying away and a bit of red in the snow. You should stop wearing white.” He sounded serious and there was concern in his warm eyes. That burning sincerity he wore so well was there in the rings of gold and creases in his forehead.

Clara frowned at him and pushed the food further away from herself. “Nugskin just suits me so well.” She sounded disinterested, but an angry chill backed her words. He felt it, she could tell, and she delighted in it. It was a certain kind of heady power to hold over a Templar. After years of constant watching, constant discomfort, constant  _fear,_ it was a base satisfaction to be able to strike back. And he was _still_ a Templar, would always _be_ a Templar, no matter how many times he stressed the  _ex_.

“I don’t think you should be so glib about this.” He leaned forward in his chair, and while his words were hard and blunt, his eyes were soft as he looked at her. She felt heat rise up in her face, adding ugly splotches of red to the freckles already there. “Cassandra said I should come see you. Josephine and Leliana will be calling on you as well. Are you _alright_ , Clara?”

His caring tone hurt the same way falling on ice did. It hit hard and all at once, lingering stinging marks hanging behind as his words sank deep. He sounded worried and concerned and she just wished she didn’t  _care_.

“I’m perfectly fine,  _Commander_ ,” she nearly spat. The way he slipped into familiarity, her name and not her title, had her grasping for the little power she had previously possessed. She felt the sudden, stabbing fear of being in the room with a knight rush through her. The air was thick like water and tasted of magic, heavy with lyrium and the terror of the burning sword that he wouldn't admit was _there_  stood between her and him.

“You don’t seem fine,” he said, and his tone was so warm she immediately felt awful for the ice in her voice. She brought a hand up to the scar on her face and felt it lightly, old hurts paining her.

“It was just… colder than I’m used to,” she managed. She examined the grain of the wooden table without really seeing it as she crushed her embarrassment down. “Everything in Ferelden is so damn  _wet_.”

“True, the Free Marches  _are_  warmer,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s been strange coming back to Ferelden and seeing snow on the ground all year.”

“I like the cold actually. Just not when I’m stumbling around in a blizzard. The Circle at Ostwick was too warm most of the time.”

“Did it not snow there?”

She shrugged, hand coming down from her face to grip at the scarf around her neck. “I don’t really remember. It snowed when I was younger, but we weren’t allowed outside in the Circle. The windows didn’t open, either.” _Not that I ever saw the windows._

“So the day of the Conclave?” he asked, voice quiet, sedate.

“I hadn’t seen snow in 14 years, Commander.”

He didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and Clara burned with satisfaction. After a few minutes of heavy silence, he told her that he was worried, and her gut clenched at his sincerity.  _He’s too honest_ , she thought for the thousandth time.  _Templars lie, but he’s too honest._

He left her soon after her admission, old lyrium thrum fading out with him. He escaped with a murmured goodbye, making a point to say  _Herald_. It was like a punch in the gut, a deliberate strike that she felt right in her lungs. She wasn't satisfied like she wanted to be; instead hot shame welled up and burned through her. He seemed to be good at doing that to her. Too bare, too honest, too  _different,_ he was too frank to have been the head of Kirkwall's Order. Circles were made of secrets and cold malice, the Templars in love with their duty and hateful of their charges. He was  _nice_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually have the entire thing written down in bare bones in a doc, chapter by chapter. I really want to finish it because maybe then this game will release me, but the chances of that happening are slim to none.


	2. Je suis heureux de vous voir en vie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara swallowed, throat suddenly three different kinds of dry. This close, it wasn’t just the lyrium burn in the air; it was metal and polish and sweat and sincerity. He smelled like the whole of Ferelden under that hazy cloud of subdued magic. She found herself leaning closer to the _ex_ -templar without really meaning to.

Josephine and Leliana did not come to see her that night as he had said they would. The stew went cold and she went to sleep, itching dreams and shivering plaguing her until she was startled awake the next morning by a bugle. Clara crawled out of her sleeping bag still dressed from the day before and pulled her hair back tightly, futilely trying to brush her bangs behind her ears. Her coat was crinkled and she felt uncomfortably sweaty, but she went out because she had to _lead_ , if not in name then in practice.

Camp was pulled up swiftly, Cassandra truly a force to be reckoned with as she dismantled tents and loaded wagons. Pages ran everywhere, boys and girls who had been too young to die on the swords of the red Templars at Haven. _There aren't many men left,_ Clara noticed as everyone was forming into a cloud so she could begin the march. Josephine plodded over to Clara as they began to walk, Solas close at her side as she lead her crowd of believers.

“Herald, a word?” she called, looking truly ridiculous bundled in her massive coat.

Clara slowed, watching as her advisor puffed over. “Something you needed, Josephine?”

“Yes, I wish to discuss the… current state of affairs,” she said, shivering in the cold mountain air. She inclined her head to Solas in way of a greeting, and he nodded back. It was all so civil, Clara found it almost comical to look at.

“Really? Right now?” Clara asked. “You look frozen.”

“I _am_ ,” she admitted breathlessly. “I don’t understand how you’re not wearing more clothing.”

An unwelcome smile twitched at the sides of Clara’s mouth and she clamped down on it. Solas smirked quietly as Josephine’s teeth chattered, lips turning up at the corners like they did whenever he made one of his terrible jokes. “I’m actually a bit too warm right now,” Clara said. She looked pointedly at Solas’ bare feet and Josephine followed her gaze.

“Maker’s breath! Solas, I’m sure we can find you shoes,” she exclaimed, examining the pale toes standing on the thin craggy ice.

He looked at the Herald sideways before turning to Josephine and offering a small smile. “I am fine, Josephine, thank you.”

“Josephine, you wanted to discuss something with me?” Clara prodded, dragging the ambassador’s eyes back to her. They were wide and shiny, dark color bright against the snow around them.

“Yes, yes I… would like to confirm that you are sure of this course that Solas has put us upon,” she said finally, the words chopped up by her shivers.

“I am sure that we have no where else to go,” Clara offered, crossing her arms over her chest, voice chilling fast. “I believe Solas knows what he’s doing, and if he wanted to destroy us he would have done it by now.”

It was a moment before she answered, face composed as she took in Clara's tone and posture, words hanging heavy in the air. “Thank you,” she said coolly, mouth set in a hard line and Clara couldn't tell if it was the cold or her demeanor that had put it there. The way Josephine looked at her, how her eyes had narrowed at her tone had Clara’s gut stuck with icy spikes. Josephine turned to plod back to the bulk of their horde, but Clara caught one fur-covered arm.

She couldn’t think of anything to say and _I’m sorry_ seemed too heavy and out of place. Josephine seemed softer when she saw the look on her face, however, and placed a gloved hand on her arm.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Lady Trevelyan,” she said softly. Clara nodded stiffly and Josephine left to rejoin the group.

“You shouldn’t let your conscience weigh upon you so heavily,” Solas commented. “You would be a great deal _easier_ to be around.”

She pursed her lips and snapped at him to just walk, icy expanse of the valley stretching before them. 

* * *

 

Solas lied. The journey did not take a week; it took eight days. Eight days of Clara avoiding Cassandra and those little bits of food she gave her to eat when she knew she had skipped dinner. Eight days of spending the night alone in her tent as she shivered in the cold, implacable guilt pressing on her arms and legs until she couldn't move. Eight days of not thinking of the Commander and his concern, the way he still visited her, however briefly, and asked how she was doing. It had been arduous and her bones ached from the cold, the anxiety, that lyrium cloud around him he had bleeding into her.

“Skyhold,” she murmured as she walked into the courtyard.

“If it had any other name, it has been lost to time,” Solas said. She turned and saw him staring up at the broken towers in subdued approval.

“Your fade-dreams haven’t shown you all?” Clara quipped as she watched the crowd of people behind her flood into the grounds.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye but rejected the offer to rise to her bait. She chewed on the inside of her lip, a penance for trying to provoke him. He was a friend and he’d saved her personally too many times to count. He didn’t deserve her spite or insults.

Settling into Skyhold was surprisingly easy for a forgotten fortress. However secluded it may be, Josephine had a distinct way with words that had merchants flocking the gates within a week. Even while the place was a crumbling mess, it was magnificent. As Clara walked the broken halls, her nails lightly scraping along the hard stone, she could feel the ancient magic there. It was present in the way the castle stood, the mason work, the tiles of the floor, a heavy blanket that protected. A place that would protect them, even _with_ all the spiders.

Sitting on the bed in her new room, she felt a certain kind of safety she hadn’t felt since she was small and hadn’t yet been able to draw frost on her windows or bloom flowers in her hands. It was calm here, and the mountain air was cool. Ostwick had been too warm and the air stank of salt and fish, the sound of crashing waves a constant background noise to her childhood. This new fortress was strong and old and it had _windows_.

A small knock resounded on her door.

Clara rose from her bed and brushed off the new regalia Josephine had given her. She felt official in it, nothing like she did in mage robes. She opened the door and was faced with a short squire. “Is it important?” she asked, words hard like ice.

He looked nearly frightened, like he wanted nothing more than to be gone. Truth be told, she wanted nothing more than for him to be gone as well, but she stayed her tongue. She _wasn’t_ mean. She wasn't cruel, she didn’t _want_ to be.

“S-sister Leliana asks that you come to the courtyard right away,” he managed to stammer out before escaping. She hadn’t dismissed him, but she let it go.

Hands ran over her face, rubbing over her scar lightly before she sighed. Three minutes passed before she made her way outside, pausing slightly when she saw the entire compound gathered on the grass. Cassandra gave her a small, tight smile, Leliana to her left.

Clara descended the steps warily. Her mind whipped itself into a frenzy, obsessing over what she could have done. She was finally going to be executed, she had been too terrible to keep around, _Templars_ were coming--

“The Inquisition needs a leader,” Cassandra said so sure and strong once Clara hit the last step.

Thoughts of Circles and windowless rooms with swords for doors still crept in the corners of her eyes. “You mean me?”

“I cannot think of anyone else,” the Seeker replied, handing Clara a truly massive greatsword.

She held it awkwardly in her hands, more than five feet of steel. She looked out at the crowd, her followers and advisers all staring up at her expectantly, reverently. Cullen stood next to Josephine, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. Clara could have sworn she saw him smile.

Cold resolve trickled into her right there, hands tightening around the grip of the blade. She hefted it above her head, watching as it gleamed in the afternoon sun. “We’ll make Corypheus _pay!_ ” she announced, face grim with her commitment.

The ensuing cheers bolstered her, cracking the hard line of her mouth into the smallest of smiles. The crowd rippled as people, _her_ people, cheered. Metallic banging rang out as the Fereldens did that queer chest pound she had come to know meant _solidarity_. Shouts of “Inquisitor!” and “For the Herald!” sprang up as they roared their encouragement.

All in all, though her arm ached after holding the blade so high for so long, it was good. The crowd broke up as her council herded her inside. Congratulations, but what do they do now?

“We know what Corypheus is planning,” Leliana started right off. “The only question now is how do we stop him.”

“A demon army, the Empress of Orlais dead, and the Inquisition crushed within a _year_. How would he accomplish any of these?” Cullen asked, hands gripping his sword tightly.

“He most likely wants to throw the whole of southern Thedas into chaos. The death of the Empress would surely accomplish that.” Leliana paced slightly, hands clasped behind her back. “Celene has enemies, first and foremost her own family, but an actual assassination would be difficult to accomplish. Ultimately then, the question is not _who_ but _where_ and _when._ ”

“She will be holding peace talks at Halamshiral in a few months,” Josephine answered immediately.

“The Winter Palace? She would certainly be open to attack then and a display at peace talks would cause enough of a scene to throw Orlais into chaos,” Leliana said.

“How would we even go about saving Celene?” Clara asked hotly. “The Inquisition isn’t exactly in the empire’s good graces at the moment.”

Josephine rose to her question. “True enough, Inquisitor, but with enough influence and a few favors, I could secure invitations to attend.”

“That still leaves the matter of Corypheus’ demon army,” Cullen interjected.

Small, heavy footsteps cut off whatever answer Leliana had. Clara looked down and saw him: short, blond, confident, distinctly guilty-looking. He avoided looked directly at the advisors, instead turning his attention to Clara. “Hey, I’ve actually got a friend who I think can help us out with all of this. She’s fought Corypheus before so she knows what we’re up against. Come see me on the battlements when you can.”

“A friend?” Clara asked, but Varric just shrugged and gave her a smile.

He walked out and she shook her head, a pain starting to build in the back of her skull. One bad thing comes and goes, and seven more spring up to take its place. She turned to her team and they were just watching him walk away, each with varying confusion apparent on their faces. Leliana began shaking her head, a small smile on her face.

“Something funny, Sister?” Clara asked, chips of ice right there in her words.

“If this friend is who I think it is,” she replied as she turned to walk away. “Then Cassandra is going to kill him.”

* * *

 

The Champion of Kirkwall was everything that Varric’s _Tales of the Champion_ had lead Clara believe she was. Tall, mage, mop of black hair and blue eyes that seemed near perfect mirrors of the sky. She had a narrow chin and a nose that had her resembling a hawk in more than just name, and yet a smirk that broke out softened her features and it made sudden sense to Clara why so many had called her beautiful.

“Ah, so you’re the Inquisitor! Varric never told me he’d found a replacement for me so fast,” Hawke said, a bright laugh spilling out. Varric smiled from the side and offered his hands up.

“Hawke, there’s no way I could ever replace _you_ ,” he replied. Clara brought a hand to her face to cover her scar as the Champion continued to laugh at her own feeble joke.

“Of course, but my life must seem _terribly_ dull in comparison to our lovely Inquisitor’s here,” Hawke said, gesturing to Clara. “Trouble and crazy people only came around every few years for me, not every week.”

The Herald rolled her eyes and brought her hand down, suddenly more self-conscious of being around them than she was of her scar. “Speaking of trouble, I _believe_ Varric brought you here to discuss _Corypheus_?” she said, voice snide and frigid.

“Oh, _brrr_ ,” Hawke said as she mimicked shivers. She let out another short bark of a laugh but sobered quickly. She cleared her throat and straightened up but that _smirk_ was still on her face. “I’m sorry, yes, Corypheus. A few years ago, before everything went straight to shit in Kirkwall, I found him in a prison the Wardens had built for him. A cult of dwarves under his influence found me to lift the blood magic bindings that the Wardens had had my father place for his freedom.”

“Blood magic?” Clara asked with the slightest tremble to her words. Her hand grabbed at the collar of her shirt as dark rooms and flashing swords streaked across her mind. She shivered despite the lack of a chill, metal skirts rattling out their duty in her skull.

“He was _forced_ ,” Hawke insisted as she leaned over the battlements. “They threatened to kill my mother, and I guess, in effect, me as well, if he didn’t.”

“So you released an ancient darkspawn magister and just… left?” Clara asked, mistrust and dislike mounting with each word.

“No! No, he was dead on the ground when we left, I swear it!” Hawke stood back and stepped in front of Clara.

She certainly was _tall_. Nearly six feet high, she stood more than two over Varric and almost a half over Clara. The Herald looked up at her, the singing of magic palpable in the air. Clara could feel the small strands that pulled magic through to her drifting softly over her face, her hands, her fingers as she subconsciously readied herself for an altercation.

“Well he was certainly alive when he threw my soldiers around like they were toys.” Clara puffed up, eyes hard and icy as she stared into Hawke’s bright blue ones.

The Champion sighed and stepped away. “Look, I don’t know how he did it, or what happened, but I killed him, bam, he was dead. He’s back now though, and I have a Warden friend who can help.”

“See, Varric said _you_ were the friend who could help.”

“I am helping. I’m helping you get a Warden.” Hawke wandered around for a bit, pivoting to look over the battlements again. “I feel like having one around would be a good thing, considering Corypheus is a _darkspawn_.”

She was right, and Clara knew it. Blackwall hadn’t been the least bit of help in matters of Corypheus, but she wasn’t going to let Hawke _win_. “We already have a resident Warden, actually. Not very charming, but he seems to be extremely proficient at killing darkspawn.”

Hawke had the decency to look shocked, but she shook her head. “Varric told me he hasn’t been much of a help with Corypheus.”

 _Varric_ didn’t have the decency to look surprised. He hid behind Hawke lest the Inquisitor’s wrath fall on him and he find himself frozen into the next age. The Herald looked back to Hawke and sighed. “Alright, give my Spymaster his location, and I’ll find him. Hopefully, he’ll be of some use.”

“Oh, he will be. He’s stubborn, but that’s probably why he’s still around.”

Clara rolled her eyes and walked away from Hawke with the promise to speak with her over dinner that night. They would leave to find the Warden after the Arcanist she requested arrived. She heard Hawke say _something_ that she was sure was directed at her, but she was too far and the words just under hearing. She shook her head to put the thought out and made her way down the battlement. She was swarmed nearly immediately by congratulations from her companions.

She endured it, though it wasn’t as bad as she had thought it was going to be. Clara found that so many things weren’t as bad as she originally worried they were going to be, but it still didn’t stop the cold worry in her gut from gnawing at her and keeping her awake.

As she fended off Blackwall’s attempts at congratulations, the sound of restrained arguing drifted up to her.

“Demon or spirit, it _cannot_ stay here,” Vivienne said in that clear voice she had.

“You will find that the two are not so dissimilar, Knight-Enchanter.” Solas.

“I cannot have him here if he is going to be a danger,” Cassandra said as Clara rounded the end of the steps and found them clouded together. The hostility in the air was thick like fog but they all seemed so relaxed. Well, except Cassandra. She never seemed relaxed at all.

“What are you all fighting about?”

All three turned to look at her at once. She tapped her foot impatiently as Solas explained the situation to her. Vivienne waited patiently until he was done before demanding, quite nicely, that Cole be kicked out. Cassandra said that she would defer to the Inquisitor’s judgement.

Hawke’s mention of blood magic still rattled around her head, mixing insistently with _demon army_. She looked over to where Cole had been just a moment ago, and then remembered back to when he’d come banging on the gates to Haven, so kind and very dangerous.

“He’s staying,” she said and there’s no further discussion.

They leave, Solas giving her a small smile to match Vivienne’s quick frown and then they’re gone. Clara looked and saw Cole with the injured soldiers, muttering fretfully to himself as the men around him sweated in quiet dying. She approached, he spoke, so tangled and cryptic, and she got the sense that he’s too simple to be evil or good. It was the want to be good that drove him, even as he gave that soldier the peace he’d been wanting for the two weeks since Haven as a dagger between his ribs.

He stood and looked at her and her heart thumped, hard.

“Thank you for letting me help him,” he said soft and quiet like wind whispering over snow.

She couldn't find it in her to be icy or frigid, so she isn’t. She nodded and he gave her the smallest of smiles before coming closer and looking at the scar on her face.

“What are you doing?” she asked, so sharp, as he steps too close, and just like that the wind is blowing her words out again, flakes and icicles.

“Steel and boots, too sharp, the sound too clear. Solid, hard and cold, yet hot against skin, she’s screaming, pain, red, biting into cotton and stone.” His eyes were cold, blue or grey, and empty and she’s scared for a split second before he stepped back and shook his head. “I can’t let you forget.”

Her hands were shaking, she realized, and she squeezed them into fists. “Don’t… just don’t do that to me, alright?”

He nodded to her and wandered off to listen to someone else.

Clara was left standing there, heart beating against her chest. She ran hands over her hair, patting any stray strands back into place as she collected her breathing. Her feet turned away from the man Cole had _helped_ and she couldn’t be away fast enough. She didn’t run, _couldn’t_ run, not here, but anxiety pricked at her feet, pushing her forward.

Almost to the great stone staircase, he stopped her. She turned, the Commander beckoning her over just as she’s about to make her escape. Her guts screamed that she should just _go_ , Cole’s words stirring up too much in her for her to speak with the Knight-Commander.

But she walked over to him, the flipside of her stomach telling her that she wanted to speak with him, hear the lyrium burn beneath that metal shell.

“Are you settling in alright?” he asked, one half of his face pulling up in a small smile that had her gut unclenching.

She nodded, a hand going up to rub at her face, her scar flat and smooth against her fingers. “Yes, it was fortunate that the new furniture arrived today. I had almost forgotten what a cushion felt like.”

His smile grew wider, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Skyhold certainly is secluded in that respect.” It had taken a week for the trade caravans to arrive. Markedly not that slow, but it hadn’t seemed quick in the great stone shell of the castle.

Her face was warm and the air had that metallic magic lyrium tang to it, and she was _sure_ that was the reason she didn’t know where to put her hands.

“I trust _you’re_ settling in alright?” she asked. She dropped her hands from her face and clasped them in front of herself. She shouldn’t be fiddling with her fingers in front of one of her advisers.

He nodded, brisk and telling just like everything else about him. “Yes, I’m fine. I spoke with your companions as well, and they are all doing alright. I suspect they will be doing even better when we have the castle fixed.” She looked at him in silence, grasping for something to say because she didn’t want to just leave. The Commander watched her, smile slipping from his face. His voice grew quieter, tone dropping into something low as he took a step closer to her. “Inquisitor, I… wanted to tell you how glad I am that we all made it to Skyhold safely.”

Clara swallowed, throat suddenly three different kinds of dry. This close, it wasn’t just the lyrium burn in the air; it was metal and polish and sweat and sincerity. He smelled like the whole of Ferelden under that hazy cloud of subdued magic. She found herself leaning closer to the _ex_ -templar without really meaning to.

“I’m glad you’re safe as well,” she murmured, remembering his face after she had volunteered to collapse the mountain. She had seen the reason behind her doing it, she had cheated death too many times before, and she knew he saw that reason too. Only now, as she recalled it, did she remember seeing the disappointment and fear in him at the idea of her dying under the snow.

He swallowed, her eyes watching as his throat bobbed. This close, she could see he had recently shaved. It was good to see. The beard he had managed to grow made him look like the Avvar wildmen in the Fallow Mire. She took a deep breath and let it out, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

Then, just as quickly as his smile had slid from his face, duty dropped down hard and fast like a sword between them. She had to be anywhere but here, her hands too cold and her face too warm. She turned to make her escape, feet feeling tangled and clumsy on the hard grass. A huge hand grasped her arm, pulled her upright and just the slightest bit closer, and her mind couldn't handle it. It ceased to offer her anything other than the blind panic mixed with the intensity of the heat under that gloved hand.

The Commander gave her arm a slight squeeze before he released her. She didn’t run because she _couldn’t_ , again, but she wanted to. Clara went up to her room and laid down on her bed because she was the goddamned Inquisitor, and if she wanted to escape the enormity of the castle for a few hours, she was going to. She slept fitfully for an hour before sitting at her desk and finding an old book about Ferelden history and poured over it until that poor squire was sent up to bring her to dinner. She left the room never having noticed the way her windows had frosted over from her anxiety.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright things should be picking up now. Again, any feedback is much appreciated!


	3. J'ai confiance en toi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She saw his face fall at her mention of the Circle and she delighted in her own small victory. The lyrium sang out that he was still a templar, added to by the way he barked orders and went out of his way to avoid the mages she had "let loose" on the grounds. It suddenly wasn't so hard to focus with him there, even with all of his soft words and hot touches, that burning shield still stood right there between his hand and her skin. A wall that had been placed through years of training and imprisonment and cruel templars with burning cold swords.

“You _conniving little shit!_ ” the Seeker hissed out as she played chicken with Varric. Clara watched as they ran around the table, Varric barely escaping another broken nose.

 _“Enough!”_ Clara shouted at the two. Varric ran to stand behind her, staring at Cassandra from behind her hips.

“Inquisitor, she’s gone crazy!”

“You knew where she was the _whole time_ ,” Cassandra hissed, voice thick with old grief and new rage. “She should have been at the conclave, if _anyone_ could have saved Most Holy…”

“I didn’t know how bad everything was! I was protecting my friend, and I would do it again.”

“You _lied_ , Varric. I can’t believe I actually believed you!”

“Cassandra, I don’t care what Varric didn’t do before, he’s helping us _now_.”

Cassandra looked down at the heavy grain of the table. It looked cracked and worn and rife with splinters. “Go Varric, just… go.” She didn’t look up.

Varric fled quickly, but not too fast for him to think of something extra to say, just _something_ else to push at Cassandra, see how far he can take her. How far can she bend before she breaks? “If Hawke had been there, she’d be dead. You people have done enough to her.”

His fast heavy footsteps rang down the stairs as Clara watched Cassandra. The Seeker was still examining the table, though Clara suspected she wasn’t actually seeing it. The Inquisitor stood where she was, not willing to approach. She didn’t want to give Cassandra anything before she explained.

“It’s my fault he didn’t tell us where Hawke was sooner. I didn’t tell him why we needed her, so he kept her from us.” Cassandra pushed back from the table and looked at Clara.

“You can’t focus on the past, Cassandra.” _Like I'm one to speak._

“I am not. I am owning up to my mistakes.” The Seeker came to stand in front of the Inquisitor.

Clara looked up at her, all scars and iron. “Killing Varric isn’t going to help anything.”

She sighed. “I know. Tell me, what would you do, in my place?”

Clara pursed her lips and looked away. The window was open and the sky was nearly dark. She remembered the scene at dinner, when Hawke had walked in and Cassandra saw her. Varric had made himself scarce, but true to her title, the Seeker had found him. And attempted to break his nose a second time.

“Let it go,” the Herald said finally. “He’s probably right, and they’re both with us completely now. What’s the point in causing an even bigger rift between you two?” She didn’t mean to be cold to Cassandra, but she was and the older woman could feel it. Her frown deepened, but Clara got the sense that that was the answer that she was both expecting and wanted.

Cassandra shook her head. "I only hope you are right, Inquisitor."

* * *

 

Another Ferelden custom that Clara had the chance to observe was the _incessant_ need to celebrate. They didn't have small _soirées_ like they did in the Free Marches, nor were they grand like Orlesian balls. Nearly everyone in attendance was in some state of inebriation, the Champion of Kirkwall herself perhaps the most drunken attendee. Following closely behind were Bull, Sera, and Dorian, all vying for second place.

The Inquisitor had managed to get herself well gone as well, finally thawing enough to enjoy the party. A bottle of some shady red liquid had her eyes prickling with tears the first three cups, and her feet completely numb by the sixth. Clara had kept herself mostly separate, instead allowing Hawke to keep her followers rapt. She had managed get up on the table and reenact the demise of one particularly large wyvern and his unfortunate owner, using Sera poised on Bull's shoulders as a mock of the two.

The Champion conjured a ball of energy, the entire hall cast into dancing shadows by it, and let it dissipate. She ran over and shoved Bull, laughing as he faked slipping off the table.

"And then _I_ said, "It looks like the Duke... has fallen from grace!"" Hawke shouted, face flushed red and wobbling about on shaking knees.

The entire hall burst into raucous laughter, the Champion leading the crowd in way of the howls that Fereldens seemed so fond of. Clara looked up at her, mind foggy and skin tingling pleasantly from the magic still crackling through the air. She recalled when she had first read _The Tales of the Champion._ It had been dark, two weeks before she was to leave for the Conclave. The pages had been illuminated by magelights, an eerie glow for such a tall tale. And sitting here, looking up at Hawke, the tale seemed even more unreal.

"Enjoying the party?" a voice she instantly recognised asked from her right.

She jumped at how suddenly he was there. No lyrium burn, heavy footsteps or metal polish smell. Her mouth squashed into a grim line as she mentally chided herself for going too far. A year ago, a templar could have never snuck up on her like he did. She turned to look at him and found he was flushed and smiling. Her stomach clenched almost painfully and her face burned. "I don't understand how you Fereldens can have so many parties."

"You haven't even seen a party, My Lady Inquisitor." He flashed her a smile and her face grew even hotter, unbelievably so. "These are soldiers _celebrating_. I guarantee if there were any diplomats here yet, we wouldn't been in the hall."

Clara snorted, so unladylike she devolved into a full laugh as she remembered what her mother had said about _snorting._ "Did you ever _celebrate,_ Commander?" Her tone was playful and her tongue thick. She had no idea what had gotten into her, but everything felt _so_ much easier.

He might have blushed but Clara had trouble seeing through the liquor and the red already splattered across his face. He brought a hand up to the back of his neck as he grinned. "The night that we were all ordained into the Order, everyone got right drunk. I don't really remember much, but I recall someone pinching the Knight-Commander's helm, and everyone taking turns drinking out of it." His grin spread and she wasn't sure if it was discomfort of his reminder that he was a Templar or something else that had her stomach clenching and hands searching for something to hold on to. "He was livid when he saw us all over the mess hall floor the next morning."

She needed to hear him keep talking, she found. It made the hall feel less cavernous and Hawke's blatant displays of magic less like a film over her skin. "Did he do anything to all of you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "But he saw his helm on the ground and picked it up. When he put it on his head, all of the leftover wine from the night before spilled over his head right there." He broke out into laughter and it resonated through Clara.

"The templars I knew never really seemed the type for drunken revelry," she commented. The half-full cup before her called out and she swallowed it in one gulp. She coughed up nearly half of it as it proved to be too much to swallow at once, her eyes watering as her throat threatened to split apart.

He gave a stern clap on her back that had her spitting up like a child. She was warm where he had struck her, coughing as he proceeded to rub the spot he had just hit. Cold embarrassment slid down right after her drink and she wanted nothing more than for the floor to swallow her up right there.

She heard a hiccuping noise and she realized the Commander was _laughing._ Clara turned to him, eyes cold as tears streamed down her face and he began coughing, averting his eyes from her. His hand still lingered on her lower back.

"I'm sorry," he offered, but he was still suppressing laughter. He didn't seem too sorry.

She turned away from him and looked up at Hawke. She had two other mages around her and had swallowed half a bottle of wine, her hands poised under her chin. Then she spat the wine out and it burst into flame about an inch or two from her face. Clara looked away in disgust as the hall erupted into screams and clapping.

She poured more into her cup. Hands shaking and his touch _still_ warm on her back, she spilled more onto the table than into the glass. He took the bottle from her and finished pouring, setting it back down on the table when he finished. She muttered her thanks before taking a small drink so she didn't have to talk and say something embarrassing.

"So Inquisitor, _have_ you ever attended a party?" he asked. His voice was smooth and low and she felt it right down in her toes. She didn't want to answer him, but she _had_ to. His hand was burning hot on her back and the lyrium right there under his skin was practically singing to her.

"I was never one for parties," she admitted as she swirled her glass around. "Not that we were permitted much celebration in the Circle."

She saw his face fall at her mention of the Circle and she delighted in her own small victory. The lyrium sang out that he was still a templar, added to by the way he barked orders and went out of his way to avoid the mages she had "let loose" on the grounds. It suddenly wasn't so hard to focus with him there, even with all of his soft words and hot touches, that burning shield still stood right there between his hand and her skin. A wall that had been placed through years of training and imprisonment and cruel templars with burning cold swords.

"What about when you were younger? Before you went to the Circle?" He drew his hand away from her and she wanted it back, stinging shield be damned.

Clara shrugged, taking another drink. "I was eleven when the _Templars_ were called. I don't have so many fond memories before then," she lied. She didn't know how much she wanted to give him. Anything he cared to know, he could just ask Leliana and he'd know everything. The illusion of power was nice to her.

He took it in stride. "I can relate, sadly," he murmured. She looked at him sideways and he began backtracking quickly. "Not about the Circle or having magic, I'm not _that_ large of an ass. Just... my family."

She nodded, accepting his words and soft tone. It didn't occur to her to ask why his childhood had been less than palatable, but she was nearly certain her blood was more liquor than water at this point.

They watched Hawke step down from the table and sag against Bull. She was laughing and her sharp face was a splotchy red. The mighty fur collar on her robes had spots of beer all over it and it looked like she had a stain on her front that had come from half a chicken being lobbed at her when she "slayed" Duke Prosper again.

"I enjoyed the quiet, actually," Clara said eventually.

The Commander scooted closer, lyrium and a spark of something else in the air. "At the Circle?"

She nodded. "I enjoyed studying. No one ever bothered me much. I was a noble, and many of the other mages didn't want to associate with me." She looked at her cup again and wrinkled her nose. "There were too many spiders, though."

Clara felt his half-smile in his words, in the way he leaned in just close enough for her to smell his aftershave and the wine on his breath. "Did you have any friends at all?"

"One," she said with a shrug. "I was too... frigid for everyone else, I suppose." And she was. She was cold and carved from ice and she liked it that way. People stayed away and she was left alone with her books and her spells. Even with that Templar with the cold biting steel and the whispers of _abomination_ and _blood mage_ , they stayed away because they were afraid.

"Too cold?"

She snorted again, picturing her mother rolling out of bed as if she could sense her daughter's misbehavior. "You're not dull, Commander, _surely_ you must have noticed."

His hands were on her again and it wasn't natural for just some man to be that warm. Her skin burned like frostbite under her clothes and it just finally registered that his gloves had been off. He scooted even closer and her head swam, rivers and lakes of melted icicles being all that her brain was reduced to. "You're not so bad, Inquisitor," he said all warm smiles and soft eyes.

Another Ferelden oddity she had come to notice was the burning sincerity. The Commander spoke with his hands and his eyes and the set of his shoulders, as well as his mouth. Those eyes that she saw on his face, in the Hinterlands, on farmhands, on _wolves,_ didn't she read somewhere that Fereldens claimed to be descended from werewolves? It seemed ridiculous, but looking at him now it wasn't hard to think it with those eyes. Bright blue and gold, like those animals and Alamarri. Marchers were all ice blue or dark brown, and here he was, golden as the _fucking_ sun. _Maker_ , how she had missed the sun all those years. Everytime she had ever left that blighted building to go and be the pet at her parents estate, it had been the dead of night and she had never been allowed outside for fear of burning something, or scaring someone, or performing a blood sacrifice, all as her father had feared. Never mind that they didn't listen that she could never conjure fire or that she was strong enough to resist a demon. It didn't matter, she was the _de facto_ youngest and a mage at that, and everything she said was _wrong._

Clara swallowed and looked at him. He had lines on his face and seven years on her. Lines crinkled around his eyes and his mouth and he shouldn't have been as bright as he was to her, and yet there he sat, warm and burning like a hot afternoon from when she was young. She caught herself wondering where he got that scar on his lip. She knew he would answer, but then he would ask her about her own and that was an answer she just couldn't give, not to him, not to a _Templar--_

He had come close to her, too close, and she jerked away. The hand on her shoulder and the one on her hip left immediately and she could breathe again. That bare honesty in his face told her shock and embarrassment, and for once she didn't feel proud at having put it there. Her body wasn't too warm anymore and she had to think of something to say, something to make it _okay._

"I don't like being called that," Clara blurted. She regretted it immediately, shame washing cold over her.

He looked confused, and bless him, his eyes were still that soft shade of embarrassed. "I'm sorry?"

"Inquisitor. I've always been 'that mage' or 'the cold one' or even 'that _bitch--_ "

He stopped her fitful stammering with a hand on the nape of her neck and another on her knee. Instantly she knew that all those cold clenches in her gut were because of him and his big hands and Ferelden brown eyes and the way she wasn't sure if it was the lyrium thrum or the smell of his armor polish. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly as she floundered for something to say. It was too hard to think with those sword-worn fingers on her and his eyes flicking down to her lips. She sucked in a hazy breath but it was mostly burnt ozone from Hawke’s stunt.

His eyes flicked up to hers and he swallowed. Clara wasn’t quite sure what she wanted either of them to do and it seemed to her that it was completely plausible that they could just stay like this. He wasn’t stammering or looking at his feet or covering his face and she just didn't know what to do when the wine had made him so relaxed.

“Are you drunk, Commander?” she asked though she knew he was, at least a little.

He leaned away from her, sheepish grin spreading over his face. “Perhaps a little.”

Hearing him say it let her breathe. His warm touches and easy smiles weren’t so huge anymore. Her stomach dropped a little at her realisation that it was liquor and not really him. He watched her and that old nervousness he held around her seemed to return. His hands fell away and he leaned back, face red and embarrassed.

She cleared her throat and tried to stand on wobbly legs. “I _think_ I am too,” she said, offering him as simple a smile as she could manage. Grins didn’t come easily to her like they did him, but she was willing to manage something so he wouldn’t be so ashamed of how close he had been to her.

He stood hastily, the clattering of the chair and his armor lost in the clamor of everything else. “I could escort you to your room, if you’d like,” he said in a rush. Her face felt colder and he turned even redder as he heard his own words. “You don’t look very stable,” he murmured, averting his eyes from hers.

She swallowed and wanted to say something, yes, no, just rub her back like he had earlier, but her throat was too dry and her legs _were_ shaky. She wanted to be anywhere but here but she just stood there, grasping the chair back for minor support.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, making herself stand up straighter. She forced ice into her voice, for once not enjoying how he recoiled ever so slightly at the venom in her words.

Her gut clenched as he nodded, straighter and stiffer. He looked every part the cold commander, but his voice was soft as he said, “Good night then, Inquisitor.”

He turned away from her and she shuffled away as fast as she could without tangling her legs around herself. Her title punched her in the gut like a ball of lead, and coming out of his mouth it had seemed even heavier. She remembered all the times he had simply called her Clara and how she had enforced that he _not_. Now, though, she was more title than name, and cold regret slid around her insides at perhaps losing that one part of her life that acknowledged that she wasn’t just Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually just really love writing heavy scenes of burning frustration filled with metaphors and suppressed emotions.


	4. Coup de foudre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He brought her hand away from her face and looked at her softly, his hand huge around her own. She prayed that she would just combust already, all of this was completely unnecessary. She didn’t need to feel like a complete idiot around him, nor did she need the way she flushed so easy or how everything was too warm when he was around. She didn’t need that thick lyrium burn or his warm brown eyes or the wonderful way he made her feel so unsure.

True to her word, the Inquisitor left early the morning after her embarrassing display in front of the Commander. Hawke and Varric had been scraped off of the floor by Clara personally. Driven by a headache and the taste of regret in her mouth, Clara pried them up unceremoniously and herded them outside to the yard.

“You have fifteen minutes to be ready to leave, or else we do not go,” Clara said and right there she was the Inquisitor. She left the Champion and her small maniacal friend to scramble around for their essentials as she left to go collect Blackwall and Cole. She figured taking a Warden to find a Warden was some sort of a good idea. Taking Cole was a matter of seeing if he really was a good idea to keep around, and if he had an episode or proved himself to be a mistake, at least it would be away from Skyhold.

As Clara strode across the ground to the stables, she saw the Commander drilling the recruits for the morning. Struck by an intense wall of shame and remembered hands, her face heated up as icy embarrassment slid down her spine. She pulled her hat down lower over her face as he turned and saw her, giving her a friendly wave. She pretended not to see him and continued past.

“Blackwall?” she called into the barn. She heard muffled groans and the floorboards creaking as he rose from his bed in the loft. Dust and bits of hay fell from the ceiling and Clara whipped her hat off, shaking the debris away with a noise of disgust.

“Inquisitor?” he asked, leaning over the ladder. He rubbed at his eyes blearily and his hair looked ridiculous.

“Still in your smalls, I see,” she said coldly, taking in his state of undress.

He flushed darkly and retreated from the ladder. The sounds of him dressing hastily reached her: buckles squeaking, buttons rattling, the soft _whump_ of padded cotton. The Inquisitor stood there, tapping her foot impatiently. Of course he had overdone it last night as well. The only others of her companions that hadn’t been veritably stuck to the wall had been Vivienne and Solas. Even Cassandra had let go, seemingly enraptured by Hawke’s tales. In truth, the fact that Cassandra had been drunk probably lent itself to Varric’s continued survival.

Blackwall came clambering down the ladder three minutes after Clara had called on him, leaving her to grow more and more frustrated. She told him to gather his things, he had ten minutes to be in the yards by the gates. She looked at him for a moment before softening and asking if he had enough sleep.

“I’ll manage,” he said with a small smile. She nodded, skin crawling with her sudden guilt for speaking to him so harshly. He wasn’t bad and he didn’t deserve her coldness.

“I would see the alchemist before we move out,” she said, turning to leave. At the entrance to the barn, she looked over her shoulder at him. “And please ask that the horses be readied for us?”

She didn’t wait for his nod, instead turning fast and striding past before the Commander could try to stop her or offer her another friendly wave. She felt sick at ignoring him, an unfamiliar sensation to have for someone else. He looked up and caught her eye before she could turn away, but he went back to watching the soldiers.

Anger at the minor snub struck up inside her, gripping along her spine and settling in her lungs. Despite how much she wanted to go over to him and either apologize for everything or yell at him for the slight, she pressed on for the wounded soldiers.

Cole was lurking around behind the tents, sitting on a small balustrade. As she approached, he turned and looked at her, a small smile springing up on his pale narrow features. It quickly turned into a frown as he saw her face and heard the blackness of her thoughts.

“You’re not alright,” he said, voice so sad her heart shook. He didn’t seem happy, just different shades of content, but when he found a hurt to heal, he waxed sad and upset. He might have been too gentle or didn’t know enough to have his own morals. It seemed his concept of good had been learned, and he was _still_ learning it, _still_ finding that a knife wasn’t the best way towards an end to pain.

Maybe that was the worst part about him, the scariest part: that fine line between spirit and demon

“No, I’m not,” Clara said simply because she had the sneaking suspicion that he could tell if she was lying.

He shook his head and looked back out over the patients. “They’re not either.”

She looked at him sideways, finding that she couldn’t summon that old power she used to be able to call on so well to make her words mean. Instead, she was soft as she murmured, “No, but they will be. And so will I.”

He nodded grimly before standing. “There’s nothing I can do for now.”

“You’re coming with me Cole. To Crestwood.”

“Alright,” he said simply. He walked over to a rock and lifted it, removing two large daggers and a harness from underneath. He walked back over to her, buckling the daggers to his back. “I’m ready to leave.”

The Inquisitor nodded, still not quite sure what to make of him, and walked to the gate to wait for the rest of her team to assemble.

* * *

 

Crestwood proved to be exactly not what Clara had wanted or expected. Wet, dark, rainy, and rife with the undead, the mud seemed to reach up like it had hands and sucked three pairs of boots off of the Inquisitor’s feet. Even when they managed to locate Stroud, she had been happier to see his fire and dry ground than she was to find the Warden. He agreed to return to Skyhold with them and went to stay at one of the camps she had established while she toiled in the warm rain.

It wasn’t even cold in Crestwood, and that was perhaps the most grievous insult. The rain was hot and made her sweat in addition to soaking her through. Her hair stuck to her in damp threads and her hands were almost too sweaty to hold onto her staff properly. When they managed to drain the lake and close that damned rift, the sun came out and made it unbearably hotter.

And yet, at least it was something to clear her mind. The week trip to the town had been a living hell. She had spent nearly every moment reliving every embarrassment she committed. It started with when she was small and made a scene at a party to that fool crush on the Templar at the Circle and ended with the way her gut clenched at the thought of the Commander. She was too warm constantly, and the wet heat of Crestwood had seemed to finally burn it out of her.

It was solemn, too, and quiet. Marking those ancient water-logged corpses and hearing Cole’s whispered, “I’m glad we helped them,” had her nearly shaking with relief for _something_. Clara found that he was _good_ to have around, something like a reminder that not everything she had to do was a means to an end. She was the Inquisitor, but she was still mortal, not just a title.

Of course, the dragon had been the true icing on the cake of a terrible time. Large, unexpected, and loud, it didn’t go down easily. Cole ended up killing it, a swift dagger through the eye, after it had pulled Clara close and stamped her down with its foot. She didn’t remember its death, but Blackwall told her afterward when she had been dragged back to camp. He sounded something like fretful as he asked her if she was alright. It was hard to find the energy to be short with her ribs broken again, but she had managed it, much to her pride later.

The ride back had been nothing less than tortuous as well. As good as the healers the Inquisition packed, they could do nothing for the soreness and bruises that would linger after they stopped the internal bleeding and broken bones. Or perhaps they wouldn’t, instead wanting to focus their attention on fixing more broken people. So it fell to be five days of regret for slaying a dragon.

“You know,” Varric said to her the first night of traveling back, “I never thanked you for not bringing Cassandra along.”

She raised an eyebrow at him as she tried to massage feeling back into her numb legs after a day of hard riding. “What makes you think I did it for you?”

Clara decided immediately that she hated that smug smile on his face. He pulled his crossbow off his back and set it in his lap. “You’re not nearly as bad as they all say you are.”

“Not as bad as who says?” she asked stiffly, not giving him the pleasure of turning towards him.

“Oh, no one,” he said as he leaned back. “It’d be suicide to give you any names.” He patted Bianca, fingers moving deftly as he cleaned out the gears and belts inside.

“I thought you kept the way you fondled your crossbow _inside_ of your tent,” she sniffed, mind failing at anything crueler to say.

He just laughed and continued with himself, waving Hawke over when she happened to stumble out of her tent to piss.

“Good evening, Inquisitor,” she said amicably as she moved to sit next to her friend.

Clara nodded by way of greeting. Undeterred, the Champion began to chatter.

“Varric tells me you got pretty beat up by that dragon,” she said. “I could help with the pain if you’d like.” Hawke waggled her fingers, the ridiculous gesture accompanied by a crooked grin.

“You don’t seem the type for healing.” From _Tales of the Champion_ , it had been abundantly clear that Hawke was more for gravitation spells. The sheer number of times Clara had had to read “and then the mighty Champion crushed her enemies underneath the fist of the very Maker!” was enough to make her sick.

She shrugged, smile dropping into something warmer as she looked towards the fire. “I was never good at it, but Anders managed to teach me a few things. I hear I’m actually not half bad.”

“No. Thank you.” She was short, but she didn’t regret it, not with Hawke. The Champion seemed all show and bluster and party tricks. Clara didn’t feel bad for using her venom and ice like she did with the Commander and Cole.

“You’re a real tit, you know,” Hawke said, leaning towards her.

“Hawke, don’t provoke her,” Varric warned. “I saw her turn three separate men into big blocks of ice and then beat them apart with her staff the other day.”

The Champion scoffed, clearly believing that she could handle the Inquisitor in a fight any day. Clara would have welcomed an altercation, finding the idea of just _hitting_ Hawke a splendid one.

But that wasn’t the way the Inquisitor should act, so she changed the conversation. “You still keep Anders around?” she asked. _Apostate, abomination, blood mage,_ all shot through her mind at breakneck speed.

“Of course I do,” Hawke replied, bristling visibly. She sighed and looked down at the fire, seeming to find it easier to examine the flames than look at Clara. “He’s… not a monster, or a hero. What happened in Kirkwall was unavoidable.”

Clara was surprised by her own snort of amusement, the sharp pain in her sides cutting off any further laughter. “He started a war,” she managed, wheezing out the words, much to her own disgust.

“No he _didn’t_ ,” Hawke said with a sigh.

“He’s not _blameless_.”

“I never said he was. You weren’t _there_ , Inquisitor, Kirkwall was _never_ going to be okay. From Darktown to Hightown, it was rotten to the core. People were dying for nothing, and Elthina wasn’t going to do anything about it. Blowing up the Chantry was just the final straw.”

“You can’t be that blind, Hawke. You let him go and you stayed with him even after he killed all of those _innocents_.”

The Champion’s hands opened and closed, and Clara spotted her jaw clenching. Getting the rise out of her was satisfying, a release Clara didn’t know she had needed.

“I never supported him, you know,” Hawke said finally. She sounded too open, too raw, and Clara felt a cold trickle of uncomfortable fear at her voice.

“You’re happy enough to fuck him,” the Inquisitor shot back, venom and ice and rudeness coming so naturally with this woman.

Hawke, surprisingly, didn’t rise to the bait. “I love him, Inquisitor, but Anders and I were never friends. I feel responsible for _everything_ he does, you know. Not everything with him was bad, there is so much _good_ to him too. He wants to help people and did, he saved so many mages from the brand personally, but I watched the man I love slowly lose himself to that _demon_ , and _I_ couldn’t stop it! I fix everyone’s problems, but my sister died, I never see my brother anymore, and my mother died to a blood mage.” Hawke shifted, her hands going to her face and rubbing at her eyes. “I kept everyone else but him safe, and believe me, I tried. But do you know what he said to me when Meredith and Orsino left it to _me_ to decide his fate?”

Hawke’s silent waiting made it clear that she wanted a response. Clara shook her head, swallowing thickly at the emotion and anger in the Champion’s voice.

“He said he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t control Justice, he was having blackouts, he _wanted_ to die.” She stood and kicked at the fire. Clara glanced up at her face and saw it shimmering slightly in the flickering firelight, the realization that she had been _crying_ hitting her worse than that dragon’s claws had. “I’m not as strong as I want to be and I laugh too much. I was mad at him, but I couldn’t be the one to drive that knife into his back. So I didn’t. And it’s my fault Kirkwall might fall into the fucking sea because Prince Vael wants revenge. I made _so many_ wrong choices in my life, but not killing Anders was _not_ one of them.”

“He’s an abomination,” Clara said blankly, cold swords and burning shields right there when she blinked.

Hawke shrugged. “I know.”

Clara avoided the Champion for the rest of the trip, shaken heavily by her words. An apostate who avoided death too many times, she scared a primal part of Clara. She didn’t know the fear of those looming swords or the solitary confinement or the brand hovering over your head every day. It was nearly sickening to think that she could be so sure of herself, that she was a Champion of _anything_. But another whispering part in the back the Inquisitor’s mind kept saying that maybe everything Hawke said was right and that it wasn’t that simple. She’d seen the war building in the Circle, in those whispers at night and the way the leash tightened, in all of those mages’ scars.

Getting back to Skyhold was another unexpected relief. Not even bothering to take off her armor, she went up to her chambers and fell asleep nearly immediately, resolving to summon the war council and say _something_ to the Commander before she exploded. Sleep was heavy and fitful, more nightmares than usual with her conscience and bruises weighing more heavily than a boulder. She woke up in the early hours of the morning, cold sweat stuck to her everywhere.

It was pointless to try to sleep anymore. Clara dragged herself from the bed, bones aching and sides sore. She bit the inside of her cheek for letting herself sleep in her armor and proceeded to shuck it, peeling back the layers of leather and cloth until she was just in her slip. She was pleased to see that Josephine had actually managed to get a stone bathtub for her.

She cursed as she tried to fill it with water but ended up with half-melted snow. She slipped her fingers around those familiar Fade-threads and tried for something closer to water, succeeding again in only wet snow. A sigh tumbled out of her as she stood, a hand running through her hair. A pile of wood sat near the tub. She gathered a few and put them in the brazier under the tub. After snapping her fingers a few times, she managed to conjure a small flame, a swell of pride growing in her chest at the small heat spell. They had never come easily, the ability to light candles a fairly recent development.

After soaking in the lukewarm water, she dressed, tying her hair back with a curse after her finger caught on the thick scar on her scalp, and summoned the war council. Ever-punctual, Josephine was there first, followed shortly by Leliana. The Commander drifted in five minutes after the two women, apologizing profusely for his tardiness. Clara hardly heard him, instead focusing on the thick stubble that was a few days away from a beard. He looked tired and his hair was mildly disheveled, small, tight curls escaping the usual neat way he combed it back.

“It’s fine,” Clara murmured, looking away as he turned to her. She placed her hands on the table and the briefing began. Leliana was set to finding whoever was trying to frame Varric for unsavory murders, Josephine had the task of retrieving that blighted dragon skull, and the Commander was to oversee the manhunt for the mayor.

She dismissed them with a wave of her hand. Clara slumped over the table, her head in her hands as she rubbed how tired she was from her eyes. The door creaked open behind her, the sweep and clinking of her advisers leaving drifting over to her. An impressive sigh pulled itself out of her when she thought she was alone.

“Inquisitor?” the Commander asked softly behind her.

Clara shot up from her slumped position on the table and straightened her shirt, turning to look at him. “Yes, Commander?”

“Are you alright?”

He looked concerned and it set her stomach in knots, ice dripping down her back. She brought a hand up and fidgeted with her scar, fingers brushing stray hairs away. “I am alright.”

“I understand the dragon… _crushed you_.” He was so close to her she could see her face in the bits of armor that showed through his surcoat. She didn’t look too well, too pale with so many freckles and dark smudges under her eyes.

“Yes, it wasn’t too amicable to us _slaying it_ ,” she said with a small laugh. Her ribs protested and a small wince squeezed itself out.

He noticed, she could tell, his eyes dropping to the hand she put against her side momentarily before moving up to hers. “The healers didn’t help?” he asked, confused.

“They fixed my ribs, but it’s just bruises and soreness now. I’ll be _fine_ , Cullen,” she said, sighing at the worry on his face. She tensed as she registered what she had said, her face heating up quickly as his name echoed in her head.

“Yes. Of course,” he said quickly, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. His hand went to the back of his neck as he seemed to find the rafters of the War Room extremely interesting. “I just wanted to ask you if you could see me in my office.”

She nodded, looking away from him as she tried to collect herself. Commander Cullen left, shuffling out quickly. The room felt too warm, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down the back of her neck. A hand went to her face to rub at her eyes, a few tears leaking out along with a heavy yawn.

Standing alone in the War Room only lasted so long before curiosity over what he had wanted to talk about overwhelmed her. The Inquisitor strode briskly out of the room, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach building as she tried to banish the Commander from her thoughts. She very nearly hated him and the way she didn’t know what to do with her hands when he was around. The way she blushed so easily and the way her guts twisted themselves into intricate patterns. The way she noticed everything about him, from those brown eyes to how his hands shook as he grasped his sword to the thrum of lyrium right there, so close.

“Inquisitor, a word?” Josephine called as Clara made her way through her office.

“What is it?” she asked harshly, turning to glare at the ambassador.

Josephine made a noise in the back of her throat, but otherwise didn't acknowledge the Inquisitor’s terrible manners. “I must remind you that we have two prisoners awaiting judgement.”

“Can’t they wait a bit longer?” Her feet itched to keep going, go and see him, worry mounting on top of that strange dislike she felt.

“Well, Inquisitor, if you really think it best to keep expending _valuable_ resources on them, then yes, they can wait.” Josephine turned and gave her a small smile, but Clara felt something there behind her words. It wasn't kind and it wasn't encouraging, but it certainly was civil.

 _“Fine,”_ Clara sighed, relenting.

Judgement for Morvan went swiftly and smoothly. Pack him off to Tevinter so he can hurl goats at their castles if he wants. Clara didn’t care two ways what happened, and if he wanted to go and harass the country that spawned Corypheus, let him. Kill two birds with one stone.

Alexius was another matter entirely. Clara’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the magister. He was pitiful, a shadow of the man who had nearly destroyed the Inquisition. He had nothing left to live for, and she wanted to kill him so badly it almost hurt. Memories of Varric and Blackwall with the red lyrium inside of them burned bright in her head. Leliana, so willing to die so that Clara could set the whole mess right, was right there and so immediate. The entire Inquisition dead: Cassandra, Josephine, Vivienne, Solas, Sera, Bull, _Cullen_ \--

“Alexius, you will be brought into the Inquisition as a researcher. While executing you may seem like the preferable course of action, or even making you Tranquil, the fact that you managed to rip a hole in time attests to the fact that your abilities are too valuable to waste.” Clara stood and dusted off her clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles that had sprung up from the slouch the throne inflicted on her. “And killing you feels far too kind.”

She watched as he was removed from the hall and brought to Leliana for preparation. Briefly, she thought of the satisfaction of him wearing the brand, but it fled her mind quickly. She wasn’t cruel enough to inflict that on another mage, though so many had been made tranquil for much smaller offenses.

The hall cleared swiftly and soon Clara found herself walking the new balustrade to Commander Cullen’s office. She knocked softly on the door before remembering that she was the Inquisitor and she could go damn where well she pleased.

However, she still waited for the muffled “come in” before entering.

His office was sparse with long arrow slits for windows. Piles of rubble and creeping vines littered the ground, seeming to stand in place of actual furniture. The only real pieces were a heavy desk that sat in the middle towards the back and the large chair behind it. The Commander rose from the chair as she walked towards him, quickly shutting a small wooden box in front of him.

“Inquisitor! I’m glad you came.” He offered a small smile, eyes crinkling around the edges.

“Yes, well, you said you had wanted to talk. Josephine roped me into passing judgement.” She grasped at the hem of her shirt, fingers itching to cover her face. She couldn’t feel the bottoms of her feet, or the lyrium burn in the air.

He nodded, beckoning her to come closer. Her feet were stuck fast to the floor, but she managed to lift them and walk towards him. He continued chatting, though it sounded more like rambling, talking just to talk, while that thin layer of lyrium slowly thickened as she approached.

“I admire your creativity, though I’m not so sure that antagonizing Tevinter is really in our best interest right now,” he said, fidgeting with that small wooden box. “Alexius is another matter entirely. Is it really wise to keep him so close and not just be done with him? The man managed to hurl you through time, there’s no telling what damage he could do.”

“I trust Leliana,” she replied, voice quiet as she stood in front of his desk. “It would be a waste to kill him. I knew many enchanters in the Circle like him. Not crazed, but you can’t kill someone so brilliant.”

“I also understand that you contemplated making him Tranquil?”

She swallowed tightly, her throat thick as she thought back to the disgust she had felt at having to look at him again. “He was already broken. Making him Tranquil wouldn’t have done much.”

He seemed to like that answer and the compassion it implied her to have. Clara neglected to tell him that he was pitiful and not worthy of being given the easy death of an execution or the release of Tranquility. He _deserved_ the shame and sorrow and devastation he was feeling over the loss of his son. She wasn’t going to deprive him of that.

He looked at her for a moment, friendly and heavy, all armor and leather and lyrium. She took a deep breath and reminded him that he had asked her to come.

“Yes,” he said, snapping easily into the Commander, solid and tall. _Templar_ called out from the back of her head and nearly knocked her over. “I had wanted to tell you before you left for Crestwood, but the time never came up. As the Inquisitor, you deserve to know that I have decided to stop taking lyrium.”

“But you’re a _Templar,_ ” she blurted without thinking. She heard her own voice, the cold disbelief and something close to anger.

“I _left_ the Chantry,” he said forcefully. “I will not be bound to that life anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, breathing in the lyrium thick air. It was all there, heavy and metallic. “How long has it been?”

The Commander was silent as he looked at her, then looked away for a second to the little wooden box again. “Ever since I joined the Inquisition.”

Passages written about lyrium scrolled through her head. Magical ability, expensive, suppressant, highly addictive, _lethal_. “What will this do to you?”

“Lyrium is highly addictive, and the withdrawals can actually be quite painful. I’m not going to lie to you, it is dangerous with a small chance of death.” His hands gripped the sword pommel again, shaking slightly, and the small habit gained a whole new traction in her head.

“You could _die?_ ”

“It’s highly unlikely.”

“Are you in any pain now?”

He stood up straighter, proud, the commander, not so much the Templar she had always believed. “I can endure it.”

She grasped for something to say that would ask if he was alright, but she didn’t want to let him know that she was just the smallest bit afraid. The thought of him dying was a distant kind of fear, but it was still there. “How will this affect your duty to the Inquisition?” she asked instead.

“I have asked Cassandra to watch for any changes,” he answered promptly, clearly ready for his command to be brought into question.

Clara nodded, unsure of what to say next. Nearly a thousand rude things flashed through her head, but she didn’t _want_ to be like that. So she thanked him for telling her, and turned to leave.

Commander Cullen’s hand falling gently on her shoulder nearly stopped her heart, let alone her feet. She didn’t fully turn to face him, finding it hard to balance with him _right_ _there_ and that lyrium burn so heavy.

He was blushing, splotches of red showing through his almost-beard. His eyebrows were furrowed over those brown eyes, a look of embarrassment on his face. “I hope this… won’t make you think of me differently,” he said, struggling with his words.

His fumbling emboldened her, softening her just a little. “It’s not a problem. I care about what you want, Cullen,” she replied softly, face burning as she said his name. It still felt so sudden to say or think. Clara bit the inside of her cheek for it.

“Thank you,” he said with a small smile.

The Inquisitor had to stop herself from running out of his quarters, stomach twisting and skin too warm. She felt her face, sure she had contracted some sort of disease from cavorting around in the lukewarm mud at Crestwood. She should see Vivienne for a potion, or tell Josephine to call for a doctor, she had always been melancholic, maybe she was out of balance.

Instead, she went to the library and scrolled through the bookcases, finally pausing when she found _An Alchemical Primer of Metallurgy: Volume One._ An entire section was devoted to lyrium, and by the time she had finished reading it, night had fallen. Dorian, who had seemed to take up the role of library mouse, approached her when she stood and stretched.

“I was starting to get worried, you know,” he commented, leaning against one of the bookcases.

“Excuse me?” she asked dully, placing the book on the table next to her seat. It hadn’t told her anything she didn’t already know and had been perhaps the most complete waste of her time she’d endured in years.

“You were just _sitting_ there, not moving for _hours_. I couldn’t even tell if you were breathing, I’d half-feared you’d passed on or something.” He flashed her a winning smile and straightened up. “I’m serious, though, are you alright?”

Clara was looking at the bookshelf again, searching for something else that could tell what she didn’t already know. “I was _studying_ , I _like_ not being disturbed. I’m good at things other than killing, you know.”

 _“Really?”_ he asked with faux incredulity. “Your cold demeanor and icy personality fit the card killer very well. Just like a good Tethras crime novel.”

“His books are garbage and he knows it.” She encountered a small book on lyrium and the Fade and took it out.

“Nonsense, you’ve read _Tales of the Champion_ , haven’t you? An expertly rendered tale, full of apostate blood mages and renegade slaves.” He went to a chair by the window and sat down, thumbing the book she had abandoned.

“I was under the impression that book was banned in Tevinter,” she replied coolly. “An escaped slave who spent his free time killing slavers and a blood mage, both elves? It hardly seems like the kind of reading the Magisterium would allow.”

“Oh, it most certainly is banned, for the reasons you stated and then some,” he said with a laugh as he leafed through the book. She came and sat down next to him, opening her own book and examining the table of contents. “You know,” he began as he stared at the pages she had wrinkled, “we have a woefully under stocked library. If you want to know more about lyrium, I could ask our dear ambassador to requisition some more… _informative_ tomes.”

“Are they Tevinter books? Will it cause another war if we ask for them?” she asked absently. A small section in the book had been labeled _Confessions of a Lyrium Addict_.

He snorted at her question. “You sound as if you think every book is about the best way to prepare a sacrifice. Yes, they’re Tevinter. It’s surprising how much research one can get done when a Templar isn’t breathing down their neck.”

“Yes, like developing magic that can rip a hole right through time.”

“That was a low blow, my lady Inquisitor. Tell me then, why _did_ you spare Alexius?”

Clara glanced up from her book and saw him looking at her, eyes questioning and mouth quirked in a small smirk. She decided right there that she hated that look on his smug face, right from the mustache to his eyebrows. “It would have been a waste.”

“Fair enough, I guess. He _is_ brilliant, even though he seems to have lost his will to live.” He grew slightly pensive as he sat there, voice taking on a sadder tone. Clara remembered Felix. He had been sweet, and she could not forget the sorrow in Dorian’s voice when he had informed her of his death.

“I doubt he will try to do anything,” she murmured, prodding Dorian with one of her feet.

He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, smile still present but not as wide as it had been before. “Yes, but if he tries to offer unimaginable power and the ability to access forbidden magic, do turn him down.”

Clara rolled her eyes at him and turned back to her book. Dorian sat there with her and she found the companionable silence to be soothing. He had been an asset to the Inquisition, not just as a skilled mage, but as something resembling a friend. It was hard for Clara to tell, she had never had many to begin with. It was strange, though, he _liked_ talking to her about her studies and what she had researched in the Circle.

He wanted to listen her to ramble on and on about experiments and the Fade and her magic. He was intrigued when she confessed her complete ineptitude with spells that weren’t ice-based. Even lightning had come with difficulty, though she was able to summon it with little effort now. In turn, she found his aptitude with necromancy fascinating, if not a little revolting.

The Inquisitor’s time passed like that for the next week. The arcanist she had asked for arrived then, as well as well as her personal trainers. Commander Helaine had much to speak with her about regarding Knight-Enchanters, a field Clara had a certain eagerness to learn about. Dagna made up for her actual lack of magical ability by way of her knowledge. It was almost ridiculous; the girl knew more than Vivienne, Dorian, and Clara combined. The only person she couldn’t top was Solas, though most of his knowledge was restricted to what he had learned in the Fade, a field Dagna would never get to experience first-hand.

In light of these new-found sources into that old-way she missed so greatly, she found herself reluctant to leave Skyhold. The need to learn more about lyrium also chased her, drove her to read every little piece of information Skyhold had to offer her on the subject. When books on the matter grew scarce, she took Dorian up on his offer and asked Josephine to find titles he had recommended. Waiting for them to arrive was near torture, she noticed, as she steadfastly avoided the Commander.

Unsure as to why the thought of speaking with him again made her stomach clench so, she found as many excuses as possible to not be alone with him. It wasn’t fear of him, or at least she didn’t think it was, and she wasn’t uncomfortable around him either. It was different, being around him made her tongue too thick, and the creeping, sneaky fear that he was going to drop dead was always lurking around the corners of her mind. So she stayed away.

Soon, however, the Mayor of Crestwood was dragged back, and Commander Cullen came to give her the news. It had been eight days since she had returned from Crestwood, and six since she had spoken to him last. The Inquisitor had been reading a volume on metallurgy and the ways to refine lyrium, quickly shutting the book and pushing it away from her as the Commander found her in the library.

“Inquisitor, the mayor from Crestwood has just been brought in.” His hand was wrapped tightly around the pommel of a sword and he had purple smudges underneath his eyes. He looked clean-shaven, however.

“Already?” she asked, rising from her chair. “It hasn’t even been two weeks yet.”

“My soldiers found him swiftly after you gave the order. He didn’t give a fight, I’m told, and surrendered himself.”

She swallowed and glanced back at her book on the table. “I’ll judge him now, he doesn’t deserve to rot in a dungeon.”

He nodded and lead her to the hall.

It went smoothly, though it wasn’t easy. The man was pitiful and had seemed completely resigned to his fate. All through the hearing, the nagging sense that he had done the right thing clawed at her mind, even as she sentenced him to death. He had saved all of those people at the expense of the dying, and she knew that that was the only way to save them. She half-wished she hadn’t asked them to hunt the man down, but the other half of her said that he needed to be brought to heel for his crimes. She couldn’t afford to be soft when she needed to be hard.

His execution crawled around her head for the rest of the day and well into the night, even when she tried to retire early to sleep. His voice drifted through her head along with the imagined screams of the drowning blight victims. _Murderer_ was mixed evenly with _pragmatic,_ and it kept her awake all night.

The next morning she brought herself out of her room at the request of Josephine that she sign letters for her. She was finally released at noon with a cramp in her hand and a foul mood that had built until she had snapped at the ambassador. Rather than deal with the Inquisitor’s terrible moods, she sent her away under the pretext of telling her that she looked tired. When coupled with the concerned look Josephine gave her, Clara left feeling sick for yelling at her.

So she wandered the gardens because sleep would not come to her and she needed peace. What she found instead was Dorian and the Commander arguing over a chess game.

Clara hesitated between running away and going over. She never got the choice, as the Commander stopped her nearly instantly. He half-rose so suddenly that he nearly upset the table, much to the amusement of Dorian. The mage taunted, the Commander rolled his eyes, and the Inquisitor sighed.

Dorian ended up leaving however, after he lost to the Commander. The smug glint in his eye had her growing colder, readying herself for _something_.

“I should be getting back to my duties, but… fancy a game, Inquisitor?” Cullen asked with a soft smile that crinkled around his eyes.

She hated the way her legs felt like gelatin when he looked at her like that. She hated the way her stomach felt fluttery and her face burned and her hands itched. She hated how that smile made her too stupid to say something mean and shut him down.

“You’re on,” she said, crushing down all that lingering hate she didn’t want to feel for him.

It was pleasant, in a way, just playing. He laughed and seemed more at ease. Less the Commander and more Cullen. He chatted as he moved the pieces, and the bitter side of her said it was to distract her while the hopeful side whispered that maybe he enjoyed her company.

If he was trying to distract her, it was working. She let her soldiers all get captured like a fool and her towers were both compromised. He continued on blithely, telling her all about his family and his sisters and his brother and how he had always wanted to be a Templar. But seeing him here and talking to him like this, it was so hard to remember that he _was_ a one, even with that thrum of lyrium still hanging on him like old perfume.

“Well, what about you?” he asked, startling her.

“I’m sorry?” She felt her face flush almost immediately, her thoughts being pulled from what he must have been like as a boy.

“Do you have any siblings?” The sunlight hit him wonderfully and the bottom of her stomach dropped out. Those Ferelden brown eyes glowed beautifully in the filtering light and the stubble wasn’t so dark on his face anymore.

Clara cleared her throat and looked away from him to the board, blushing furiously. “I have four siblings,” she said, thinking of that cold sword and burning shield crashing down right through her family.

“And?” he asked gently, quietly as he took another one of her pieces.

“Well, I’ve an older brother, then two sisters, and then a younger brother.” She managed to take one of his pieces and gave a sudden shout of delight. His smile broadened and she felt one springing up on her face in response. “My oldest brother, Lothaire, is the heir apparent of house Trevelyan. Then comes my sister, Adelise. She joined the Order when I was taken, but she was never stationed with me. I understand she was placed in Starkhaven, but we haven’t heard anything from her since the Circle there rebelled.”

“You sister is a Templar?” he asked, surprised.

Clara nodded soberly, pushing a piece forward. “Yes, but we haven’t heard much since she joined. Or rather, _I_ haven’t.”

“They didn’t allow you visits?”

“My sister never came to see me.” She shrugged and claimed another one of his pieces. “Honestly, it’s been fourteen years and I was never close to Adelise anyway.”

“Then why did she join up?” He took one of her lions and placed it aside.

“We were raised under a strict Andrastian Orlesian mother and a father whose two older brothers had been mages that did not pass either of their Harrowings. She had been in love with the Templars ever since a few had come to our house as guests of my father and that was when I was eight and she was fourteen. She never stopped saying how she wanted to join and then when I ended up icing an entire floor of our estate, she joined.” Clara considered the board and sighed. “I’m almost positive she didn’t want to speak with me _because_ I am a mage, Cullen. I’ve had bigger things to deal with than her.”

“You’re not upset at all?” he asked sounding genuinely concerned.

Clara looked up at him and leaned back in the chair. “No. I was much closer to my next sister, Ridella. We were only two years apart and nearly inseparable. Lothaire had Adelise, and I had Ridella.”

“You don’t sound very… _happy_ , Inquisitor,” he commented, moving a piece out of range of one of her chests.

“I don’t enjoy talking about my family, Commander,” she said with cold steel. She softened when she saw the blush that crept up his face. “Tell me about where you’re from, if you can,” she said quietly.

The half-smile was back, and her heart beat faster in response. “Well, I didn’t grow up in a seaside estate as you probably did. I’m from a small farming village in the Hinterlands. Honnleath, it was called, though it was leveled by the Blight. My parents passed away at the time, but my siblings survived, moving up towards Highever to escape. They're all fine now, though I don't hear much from two of them.”

“I’d never seen a small village until I had to go into the Hinterlands, actually,” Clara admitted. “They were very… brown.”

That pulled a laugh out of him. It was sweet and sudden and she felt a smile creeping up on her again. His eyes flicked up to hers, lovely Ferelden brown that made her knees weak, then looked back at the board. “Honnleath was nice enough, I know that now. It had the queerest statue in the middle of it, though. I remember all the parents telling their kids to never touch it.”

She took one of his lions, a small noise of victory spilling out. “Was there something wrong with it?”

“Not in my memory. Apparently it had crushed one of the people who had lived there, but that was years before I was born.”

“Sounds like magic,” she said absently, but all those books on golems she had read over the years bubbled to the surface.

“I don’t doubt that it was,” he commented as he pushed his knight around. “The other kids in the village used to dare each other to touch it. They would always run away screaming, too terrified to actually do it.”

“How did you like it?” she asked, a mounting excitement growing inside as she learned more about him, helping distance _him_ from _Templar_.

“Of course it was boring when I was a boy. Thinking back on it now, though? I probably miss the quiet. It was quiet in the chantry, but that was different. It was all meditation and prayer. The Hinterlands isn’t forced quiet. It was nice.”

A smirk tugged at her lips as she put her chests into position to capture his king. “You sound wistful, Commander.”

That laugh spilled out again, loud and deep and wonderful. Clara bit her lips, looking at the board as her face began to heat up. “I suppose I am. Everything was so much simpler when I was a boy.” His hands fiddled with a piece as he considered what his next play would be. He moved his knight away from his king, sealing his fate. “And that… I believe is yours,” he said, leaning back with a smirk on his face.

Her eyes went to his and saw that glint there. “A fair game, Commander," she said, though she suspected it wasn't.

“You know, I believe this is the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition,” he commented, fiddling with the game pieces.

“We should spend more time together,” she said smoothly, and the words were out before she could stuff them back in. She wanted to take them back so badly, she _couldn’t_ let him know how much she enjoyed talking to him and how truly terrifying it was. That lyrium thrum and armor polish and those golden Ferelden brown eyes made her too stupid.

But he didn’t catch her sudden fear and the ugly blush that turned her into a red blotch. “I would… like that!” he said with surprising enthusiasm, a smile practically glowing like the sun.

That smile turned her brain useless. “Me too,” she replied dumbly, busying herself with the pieces so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

The surprising intensity of his murmured, “You said that,” had her tripping over her words in her haste to get away so she could breath. The night in the hall while Hawke had entertained her fans came back in such a sudden rush of shame and remembered emotion that she was dizzy. A stammered goodbye and a promise to see him later, and she escaped around the columns, breathing deeply to rid herself of his smiles and his eyes and that heavy lyrium burn.

That night, after dinner, Clara found herself walking around the new balustrades. Unable to focus in the library, wandering had seemed preferable. It soon grew to be late, and as her exhaustion from a terrible sleeping schedule bore down on her, it seemed to be a wonderful idea to go and see the Commander to apologize for how rudely she had left him at the chess table earlier that day.

It didn’t occur to her until after she had already knocked that he would most likely be asleep. Her heart almost leapt from her chest when he opened the door, his armor half missing. He didn’t look as large and imposing when he invited her inside, so she followed him willingly.

“To what do I owe this visit, Inquisitor?” he asked, gesturing to a small couch for her to sit on.

“I'm having trouble sleeping,” she admitted, sitting stiffly on the loveseat. “I just wanted to apologize for leaving so rudely earlier during our game.”

“It’s fine, Inquisitor,” he said with a chuckle as he rifled around his desk.

“And I recall you agreeing with me that we should spend more time together, and I just…” she said, emboldened by exhaustion and the steady thrum of his old lyrium. “Wanted to see you, I suppose.”

“Oh, really?” he said with surprise. Embarrassment seemed to follow shortly after as he blushed wonderfully and brought a hand to the back of his neck.

“It was nice, just talking earlier,” she said, feeling _oh so free_. Her head was light and her eyes were perhaps too dry, and had she been more well-rested, she probably would have remembered to be nervous. “People are always looking for me and I’m easy to find, too. They’re not afraid to disturb me in the library.”

“If you need someplace quiet, you’re welcome to come in here,” he offered, coming to sit next to her. He handed her a glass and she looked at it before raising her eyebrow. “It’s only water!”

She pulled her legs up under her and took the cup. It really was just water. “Why did you give me this?”

“I could get you something else if you don’t want water,” he said quickly, making a motion to get up. “I have liquor, but it’s late and I don’t want you to fall off the walkways--”

She put a hand out on his arm to stop him before he talked himself to death. It felt so different to be so calm around him, about touching him. His shirt was soft under her hand, his arm thick and warm. “It’s fine.” She took a sip just to prove it and he gave her a small grin. “Why are you still awake?”

“It’s… hard to sleep without lyrium now. Vivienne has made me sleeping draughts that help, but they can be too powerful,” he said, voice dropping out towards the end. Clara got the feeling that for him, having the ability to wake up was more important than sleeping the whole night through.

“You looked tired today,” she commented. Embarrassment at having said that welled up quickly and she focused on draining her cup to avoid saying anything else.

“I was actually sleeping better than usual,” he said with a side eye at her. “You, my lady Inquisitor, however, look extremely exhausted.”

Clara pressed her lips together and looked away, fighting the want to say something mean so he wouldn’t notice. A hand went up to cover her face, fingers instinctually seeking out that scar. “I have trouble sleeping. It’s hard to stay asleep for me.”

He brought her hand away from her face and looked at her softly, his hand huge around her own. She prayed that she would just combust already, all of this was completely unnecessary. She didn’t need to feel like a complete idiot around him, nor did she need the way she flushed so easily or how everything was too warm when he was around. She didn’t need that thick lyrium burn or his warm brown eyes or the wonderful way he made her feel so unsure.

 _Oh_ , but she did, and Maker help her, if he had asked anything other than “where did you get that scar?” she would have told him. His voice was so soft and he looked so sincere and he was so _close_ , she wanted to trust him so badly, wanted him to be _safe_. But she had to keep this secret close to herself, keep herself grounded. If she gave too much away, to him, to Dorian, to Cassandra, to Cole, to the _Inquisition_ , how much would be left?

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said instead of _a_ _Templar_ , half because he couldn’t know how bitter and angry she was, not yet, and half because she had built a scenario in her head where he found out just how deep her hate ran and deemed it too treacherous to try and dig out.

He took it and nodded, his eyes not falling from hers. She had the chance to notice the gold and flecks in his eyes, the way the color changed beautifully in the flickering candlelight.

“Thank you,” she murmured, squeezing her hand around his. It was warm in his office, but it wasn’t too hot. It was pleasant in a way she didn’t know heat and closeness could be, and dawn found her again having spent the night up speaking with Cullen. Not just the Commander, but _him_ , the Ferelden farm boy with the golden features, Cullen, Cullen, _Cullen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we finally are. The romance will definitely be picking up more now.


	5. Tu me rends heureux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strong hands came down around her shoulders, hard and solid like iron gate bars. She leaned into his touch, let him pull her into a hug. Her arms were trapped between their chests and her face was pressed into his shoulder, the heavy lyrium burn _familiar_ and so much better than the reaching nodes in the Graves.
> 
> He asked her a third time if she was alright and in that moment, she guessed she was.

Clara left early, right when the sun was just beginning to streak pink against the sky. His offer of a quiet place and solid stone walls brought a weight off of her, and she slept until noon that day. When she woke up, a combination of embarrassment and excited anticipation for having gone to see him rose up immediately. Unplaceable feelings of gratitude waxed dreamlike as her feet brought her to his office when she had dressed herself. She wondered if he really was that warm or if her hands were just cold. In the back of her mind, she knew it was probably a little of both.

She didn’t knock this time, just opened the door and entered. Just the look on his face told her that he hadn’t slept and he’d had a terrible morning. His eyes flicked up from the file in his hand to her, and then back.

“It’s good to see you,” he said not unkindly, eyes still scanning the paper.

“Is something bothering you?” she asked, sudden fear gripping cold at her guts. Something was wrong, something had put that dark look on his face.

Cullen sighed and put the file on his desk, hand resting on his sword pommel. “Remember the man who lead the attack on Haven?”

And he told her about Samson. Speaking about him seemed to pull something ugly out of Cullen, made his face twist with a hate that Clara knew well. Disgust and shame were there too, painting a picture of regret for allowing him to be reinstated, for not seeing what Samson was capable of sooner.

So she agreed when he asked her to go and find him, follow up on leads. It wasn’t just for the Inquisition or her own personal revenge; it was that he deserved some peace of mind and that this was something that he could make _right_. Something had carved those lines around his eyes and forced that hate. If she could do anything to ease it, she found, it would be worth it.

The rest of her day was spent reading about the Emerald Graves. Reports of roaming refugees and giants were coupled with red lyrium smugglers. Thick trees, damp and dark under the heavy canopy, it was probably going to give her a rare and painful disease. Instead of complaining about it, she requested a potion from the apothecary to be ready when they left the next morning.

Before leaving Skyhold this time, she made a point to see Cullen. A cold shallow hope that it wasn’t too early was coiled in her gut and it eased out when he answered her small knock on his office. His armor wasn’t on yet, it was just him and his eyes and the lyrium thrum right there under his skin.

“I wanted to say goodbye before we headed out,” she said softly.

“You’re going to the Graves?” he asked, running a hand down his face. The smudges under his eyes weren’t as dark as they had been before and she regretted waking him.

“Yes, we’re going to look into the red lyrium smuggling.” Her hands came up to touch his cheek or his shoulder or grab a hand, but she stopped herself. Instead, she gripped the collar of her shirt anxiously with one, the other going up to rub at her face. His eyes watched her hands, those pretty brown eyes that looked lovely in the rising sun. Her eyes slid down his face quickly, pausing ever so slightly over his lips before looking away, blood creeping up her face.

Either he noticed her there, burning quietly, and elected not to comment, or he was still bleary from sleep. The Commander didn’t comment, but his face grew heavy as he looked down at her. “Be careful. Red lyrium alone is extremely dangerous, but to a mage? There’s no telling what it could do.” He ran a hand through his hair, a mass of tight curls that he tugged back. Clara found the entire action far too endearing. “Who are you taking with you?”

“Cassandra is coming,” she said immediately. She took a deep breath, early morning air and his old lyrium pulling deep. “I’m taking Cole as well, and Blackwall. Cassandra asked personally to come, and having two warriors with me makes me feel… safer,” she admitted.

“I admit, I feel better knowing that they’re there. Is taking Cole… wise?” he asked, face turning uneasy.

“I trust Cole, actually,” she said, voice chilling fast. “He killed the dragon in Crestwood before _it_ killed _me_.”

He sighed and turned away, ruffling his hair again as he looked off of the battlements. He looked about ready to say something before he closed his mouth, thinking of something better to say. “You know best, Inquisitor,” he said stiffly before nodding at her and gently wishing her a good trip.

Clara didn’t move, knowing he wouldn’t close the door on her. Anger iced over her back, sudden and cold, but she didn’t _want_ to be upset with him, even if he might have deserved it. She stuck her foot in front of the door, pushing it open even further.

“Is something wrong, Commander?” she asked, hard words with sharp edges.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said softly and those Ferelden brown eyes were _right there._ There was uncertain fear and worry in him, and it broke her rising anger.

“Cole is safe, Cullen,” she said quietly, softly, breath misting slightly in the cold morning air.

“Inquisitor, if you got hurt on my orders, I--I’m not sure--it’s--” he struggled out, face twisting as he tried to find a way to put his words. He pulled a weary sigh and ran his hands over his face, stubble scraping and eyes closing.

 _Don’t die_ , echoed behind his words, and she felt her guts twist at the worry in his voice. “I’ll be fine,” she said, stepping closer to him and that lyrium burn she had come to revel in.

One of Cullen’s heavy hands came down on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. “I believe you, just… don’t get crushed again, please?”

Her lips twitched up into a smile. She was still so uncertain about all the grins that cropped up around him. Smiles had never come easily to her, even as a child before the Circle. Afterward, they were even rarer. For him though, she’d probably die smiling.

Clara took his hand and squeezed it, a promise not put into words that she would _try_. He took it with a small nod and a warm smile, eyes crinkling around the edges in a way that had her not feeling the hard saddle under her thighs all the way to the Emerald Graves. All three of her companions noticed how warm her demeanor was, and they all felt the need to comment on it.

“Inquisitor, are you feeling ill at all?” Cassandra had asked at camp that first night of travel.

“Actually, Cassandra, I feel _fine_ ,” Clara had said, no ice or venom in her voice. The memory of Cullen’s warm hands was still strong in her mind, making her blush like an apprentice whenever she thought of him.

Clearly, the Seeker wasn’t convinced, but she left her alone. The third night, Blackwall had asked her nearly the same thing, but he had been grinning. The Inquisitor had the sneaking suspicion that he knew the way she floundered around the Commander. The old bastard talked to Sera too much, and the elf _certainly_ knew why Clara had been red as a tomato for the past week.

Cole turned out to be another matter entirely. He was so hard to understand, but he was so _sweet_. His soft sad voice was turned up at the corners when he spoke to her, the small smile right there when he looked at her from under the brim of his floppy hat. Everything he said to her was hard to piece together, but she got the gist of it: he was happy she was happy.

The Emerald Graves certainly did its damned best to kill that memory of Cullen’s warm hands and golden eyes, however. Three days under the thick canopy of trees had her breathing with difficulty, her lungs feeling gummed together. She thanked the Maker that she had had the forethought to get a potion for it, otherwise she probably would have been another body buried beneath the Graves.

The smuggler camps were relatively easy to find. They weren’t too well hidden, and Cole seemed to grow more agitated the closer they were to the mined lyrium nodes. It was frightening to see, the way he recoiled and chattered from the red glow.

“The song is _wrong_ ,” he would mumble over and over until he was brought away, letters clutched in the Inquisitor’s hands.

He wasn’t wrong, and Clara could feel it too. It felt different from regular lyrium, from that constant thrum right under Cullen’s skin. It was heavier, and itchier, covering her skin like a wool blanket. The fine hairs on her neck stood on end around the thick, disgustingly metallic air. She didn’t hear the song that Cole did, though, and she was glad of that, but it was still terribly _red_.

Clara didn’t spend more than four days in the Emerald Graves, instead wanting nothing more than to get away from those red spikes and metal air. Cole looked visibly relieved when they left, and Clara kept him close, both out of regret for forcing him near the lyrium and to watch him for any abnormalities.There really was no knowing what could happen to him from his exposure, and that cold sickness settled hard in her gut. Heavy fear had her hardening again, snapping at others with cold, short words. It built into anger, something old that she was used to feeling. Anger at Cole for not just _telling_ her what was wrong, anger at Corypheus for everything, anger at Cullen for sending her, anger at herself for even going to the Conclave in the first place.

They arrived back at Skyhold quickly, two days sooner than they had planned. It was late in the day, the sun already setting orange and purple across the glittering mountains. The Inquisitor didn’t bother going to her quarters to strip off her leathers, instead releasing her companions into the compound and marching directly to the Commander’s office.

He looked startled when she barged in, but didn’t rise. “Inquisitor! We weren’t expecting you back for another two days.”

“It was _terrible_ ,” she started, marching towards his desk. She produced the letters from her pack and slammed them down on the wood. “It was _horrible_.”

“Are you alright? Was anyone hurt?” he asked as he rose, brows knitting together in concern.

“ _Cole_ , I shouldn’t have brought him, and there were giants _everywhere_ ,” she said. Her eyes closed and she brought her hands up to rub at them, squeezing out the four days of hard riding it took to get her back to Skyhold early. Her anger still burned bright, but it was hard to yell at him, scream at him for sending her there for three _fucking_ letters.

Hard, leather-clad hands grabbed hers and tugged them away from her face. Cullen was looking at her, brown eyes heavy with fear. “Did anyone get hurt, Inquisitor?” he asked quietly, worriedly.

“It’s just… it wasn’t good, Cullen,” she murmured, staring up at him. Her hands moved so that he wasn’t grabbing at them anymore; her fingers wrapped themselves around his wrists. She gave him a small squeeze to punctuate her words.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered, all warm eyes and grasping fingers.

Clara shook her head, face heating under his gaze. “I actually came up here to yell at you for sending me, but it seems stupid now.”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m always upset.”

“Yes, why is that?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “My father always said it was my mother’s half. Orlesian _and_ red hair? Terrible combination.”

He let out a chuckle, lovely eyes crinkling around the corners. “Let me read the letters and we can discuss it.”

She nodded and went over to that small couch. It wasn’t the softest piece of furniture, but it was close, and Clara found herself unwilling to leave the office. The Commander’s face grew darker as he read the letters, and she tried to imagine what he was thinking. Lyrium, Samson, Templars, lyrium, raiding, Emprise du Lion, lyrium, lyrium, _lyrium._

His age showed, right then, when he put the letters down with a sigh. Nearly thirty-two, he had seven years on her. He had been 18 when he was ordained a full templar, the same year she had turned 11 and been dragged away to the circle. Those lines around his eyes told that he wasn’t the laughing Commander she had stumbled her way around; he was a man with a past of abuses and a crisis of faith.

“You’ll need to raid the quarries near Sahrina,” he said tiredly. “In the Emprise du Lion.”

The Inquisitor sighed. Red lyrium quarries and those terrifying Red Templars would be crawling all over the place like spiders. Large, and even more horrifying than regular spiders. Cullen’s face twisted angrily as he spoke, revulsion for Samson apparent as he asked her to throw herself in there _again_ for letters.

But of course she said yes, because she was the Inquisitor and he was her Commander. She didn’t stay and talk to him like she had said she would, like she had wanted. Clara left, stripped off her armor, and summoned the War Council, put Josephine to work freeing the Emprise, set Leliana on that murderer again, and Cullen on putting the Warden Treaties to use. As the meeting ended, he held her gaze for a few moments too long before leaving. Her heart practically stuttered in response, and she was embarrassed by how a simple look could get any kind of reaction out of her.

Her feet almost dragged her across the battlements to his office, but she wandered towards the library instead. The stained wooden rafters held a certain comfort, and the stone echoed differently. On her way up to the creaking stairs, Solas stopped her and asked her for her help in finding his spirit friend. Memories of Cole flinching in the Graves played in her mind as she fervently assured him that they would move out the next morning. The grateful look on his face was completely worth the prodding she was going to receive later from Sera and Varric. She _wasn’t_ as mean as she used to be, and it was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

Dorian was excited to see her, she could tell, but he quickly squashed it down and smirked at her.

“There she is, looking lovely as ever!” he said, wide smile and crossed arms, easy countenance leaning against the bookcase. “By that I mean you look dreadful.”

“Yes, thank you, you’re too kind,” she said dryly as she fell into an overstuffed chair.

“Don’t accuse me of being _kind_ , then Varric will write a book about it and I’ll be stuck trying to show up his lies for the rest of my life.” He sat down next to her, long legs invading her personal space.

“I think Varric has better things to do than write books about _you_ , of all people.”

He laughed, looking at her fondly. Speaking with Dorian was easy, he never asked much out of her. Where Cassandra demanded certainty, Dorian wanted someone to talk to, someone who was interested in the same things as him. When Clara got down to it, she got exactly what she was missing from him.

“You do look tired, though. Well, more so than usual.”

She rolled her eyes at him and began picking through the stack of books on the small table. “I _am_ tired, I am _always_ tired. Why does everyone keep telling me that, I know I look like I don’t sleep.”

“Perhaps they are concerned for you?” he offered, helping her sort the pile of books. “You are our Inquisitor. Looking pale and haggard does not inspire men to die for you.”

Her face fell into a grimace, face cold, mouth mashed into a line. “I don’t need to hear this right now, Dorian.”

“I can mask my emotions and deflect genuine concern just as well as you can,” he reminded her, voice softening.

She sighed. “The Emerald Graves were not fun, and it was a terrible idea to go, but I still _have to_. Like you said, I’m the Inquisitor.”

“So then what’s the issue?” Dorian leaned back in his chair, elbows on the arms, fingers laced together. Dust moats glittered softly in the fading sunlight and Clara could see a small beauty mark on his face.

“I’m allowed to just be upset, aren’t I? Does everything have to turn into an analysis of why I’m angry or tired? Maybe I’m tired because I’m angry. I’m angry because everyone is telling me I look tired.” She looked at one of the books from the stack for a moment and tossed it aside in favor of a larger leather-bound tome.

“You paint with words, Inquisitor.”

“What about you?” she snapped icily, anger mounting. “You’re drunk nearly every night, you’ve run away from your country, and you’re even better than I am at pushing people away. Do _you_ want to talk about it?”

Dorian’s face was stony as he looked at her, eyes reading her face silently. A spot in his jaw was clenching and his nostrils were flared. When he responded, even the Inquisitor was taken aback by the chill in his voice. “You’ve been holding onto that one for a long time, I see.”

It wasn’t the response she had expected or wanted. She wanted a _fight_ , like the kinds she used to have with Adelise or Lothaire or the other apprentices. She wanted him to be angry and loud so she wouldn’t feel so bad about what she said. Terrible things to say welled up in her head, horrible things she didn’t really believe but still wanted to say so she’d get a _reaction_.

Instead she stood and looked at him hard, face burning and hands cold, feeling nothing like how she had a year before when all she had looked forward to was studying in her windowless Circle. “I’m sorry,” she said instead of _I don’t need you,_ because that would be a lie. “I have to go,” she said quickly, throat thick and aching, walking awkwardly away from that little bubble of books and leather chairs and dust moats she loved so much. She needed to be somewhere else, and she was loath to admit that she knew where that was.

* * *

 

He was awake, of course he was awake, he was _always_ awake. The sun had set hours ago, but she couldn’t go to sleep without seeing him. He was sitting at his desk as usual when she barged in, armor on a mannequin and only in the soft clothes he wore underneath. He looked smaller, less imposing, and a sigh of relief left her in a gust when she saw him sitting there like that, reading a report behind his desk.

“Inquisitor? Are you alright?” he asked, voice shifting into a sick kind of worry when he saw her.

Clara looked at him and sighed, fatigue and command weighing heavily upon her thin shoulders. Her hands went her face, sought her scar and pressed over it, hard. Cullen repeated his question and rose to go to her, touch her, talk to her, she needed _something_.

Strong hands came down around her shoulders, hard and solid like iron gate bars. She leaned into his touch, let him pull her into a hug. Her arms were trapped between their chests and her face was pressed into his shoulder, the heavy lyrium burn _familiar_ and so much better than the reaching nodes in the Graves.

He asked her a third time if she was alright and in that moment, she guessed she was.

He let her go eventually, when she struggled a little after a few heaving breaths.

“Do you have any more work to do tonight?” she asked quietly, face warm and fingertips tingling.

“No, not right now,” he replied, a hand going to rub at the back of his neck. He glanced back at his desk and shook his head, an affirmation.

Clara pulled him towards the small sofa and sat down with him, her legs folded under herself. He was close enough that their thighs were touching, a spot of heat pressing into her leg.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come see you sooner,” she said softly, focusing on anything other than how he was looking at her. Her eyes found that he hadn’t shaved in a few days, face thick with a dark blond stubble.

“You saw me when you first got back.” Confusion was in his lovely eyes, making her fingers itch to grab his face.

“Yes, but I _wanted_ to see you sooner,” she said. She had to make him understand that she loved sitting in his office and speaking with him, it made her feel _safe_ despite how the heavy lyrium that clung to him made her remember the Circle with its cold steel Templars.

He placed a gentle hand on her thigh by way of a response, close to where their legs were touching. It was silent and wonderful, Clara’s eyes sliding shut in the warm air of his office. She opened them to find him looking at her with those soft golden brown eyes, heavy with concern and _something else._

“I never finished telling you about my family, did I?” she asked suddenly, breaking the blessed silence.

Cullen was startled, flinching back slightly at how quickly she had spoken. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said, supportive, quiet, friendly, genuine.

“I _want_ to,” she said truthfully. “I want to talk about it.”

He nodded at her and she took a deep breath.

“My childhood wasn’t really so bad,” she started, hands going up to scratch at the thick scar under her hair. “Ostwick was nice, if not too close to the ocean. Before I was brought to the Circle, it was good. My parents doted on me and my little brother, Jules; we were only a year apart and we did everything together. Me, Ridella, and Jules were practically inseparable. I remember being small, perhaps six, and drawing whorls across windows for them or blooming flowers. I never… I never thought it was _magic_ because Jules could do it too. It was normal. Then I got mad at Lothaire for not letting me go to one of his meeting with our father and ended up freezing an entire floor of our estate.” She sighed and rubbed her hands together, the memory of the painful ice crystals and magic surging through her.

“Your brother,” he said slowly, cautiously, “was he...?”

“A mage? Yes, he was brought to the Circle three years after I was. I was fourteen when they dragged him through the huge metal doors and shut them again.” She sighed and brought her hand down from her hair to rub across the scar across her eye. “When I showed magic, I almost killed two staff members from the ice. The Templars came in fast, we weren’t far from the Circle dungeon. One of them, a woman, she was new and afraid and she had this ugly thing called a cudgel. It didn’t have spikes on it, though, which I suppose I should be happy about.

“Anyway, she hit me with it because of the little blizzard that had manifested around me in my corner of the hallway. The next thing I know I’m being dragged out of the estate, my mother and Jules are screaming, my father and Adelise are watching and not saying anything, and my arms feel like lead. I didn’t even notice the blood caked in my hair until we got into the Circle, when a healer was closing the wound.” She looked down at the floor, surprised at how easy it was to tell him. Maybe she had held it too close. It was disappointing, how meaningless it seemed when she said it.

“Inquisitor…" Cullen said, looking lost. She bit her lips and shook her head, keeping her eyes on his. He didn’t say anything, just squeezed her leg with blind reassurance. He couldn’t know how badly she needed that simple gesture right then.

“Jules didn’t pass his Harrowing,” she blurted, trying to force the feeling of his hand on her thigh out of her head. He was so close, the lyrium burn warm and familiar, so genuine and _safe_.

His face waxed from searching to concerned in a flash and it nearly broke her heart. He was so different now with his armor off, he was less commander and so much more Cullen. Hesitant and kind, he seemed unsure what to do with his hands, so he kept them on her legs. He looked on the cusp of speaking, but she shook her head.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she murmured, happy he was just listening to her. “He was only eighteen. The Templars wouldn’t…” She cleared her throat a few times, trying to choke down the memory. “The First Enchanter told me he went to sleep and just never woke up. They killed him after the Harrowing went on for too long.”

He pulled her into another hug then. It was an awkward position, but she hung onto him anyway. She wasn’t crying, nor did she think she could if she wanted to. His shirt bunched easily under her hands, the soft cotton warm from his skin. She sighed, face pressed into his shoulder, armor polish and sweat mixing with that lyrium comfort. Right now, she wasn’t the Inquisitor, and that was better than any _I’m sorry_ he could have given her.

Leaving his room that night was perhaps the hardest thing she’d done since becoming Inquisitor. Cullen didn’t say that she looked tired, he told her to get some sleep. In the soft, dark light of his room, the circles under both of their eyes were deep.

“You too,” she’d whispered gently, a hand going up to give his arm a soft squeeze.

“Can you come and see me before you leave tomorrow?” Those Ferelden brown eyes were going to be death of her, the way he was looking at her right there. Genuine concern burned bright, and she felt herself melt just a little more at seeing it there.

She promised and went to her quarters, though her room was missing something, sleep not finding her as easily as she had wanted it to. Still, it took her eventually, the memory of how he spoke with his hands and his eyes playing over in her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as long this time, I'm trying not to write such crushingly huge chapters. Still, I would love feedback and welcome criticism and comments.


	6. Toujours dans mon cœur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he cared about her too. It was written in the way his eyes picked at each freckle on her face, or how he watched her hands, his eyes sliding up each finger as she showed him how she pulled her magic through. Those lovely eyes squinted when he smiled at her, and he laughed so beautifully, it was going to cause her death with the way it made her heart beat faster. His honest voice and the way his hands and face talked more than his mouth had her spinning, he was so refreshingly _real_. Circles were all secrets and fumbling in the dark, whispers of possession and blood magic seeping through the cracks in the wall like groundwater.

Her goodbye before going to the Exalted Plains was small. Her hands clutched at Cullen's larger ones, fingers giving a light pressure as she promised to be okay. His beautiful brown eyes looked like they had when she'd buried Haven, like they did every time she left. After spending so much time looking at them, she could see a clear fear that she wouldn't return.

His own hands pressed a _Be safe_ into her as well, gripping her thin fingers gently. What a Templar he must have made, with those soft eyes and honest voice. He was certainly nothing like Marcher Templars. Ferelden grew its people differently, she guessed. The Hinterlands sprouted people from fields and mud, a few centuries between them and ancient barbarism. The Free Marchers grew like stalagmites in wet caves, all salt and old blood and self-importance.

The Exalted Plains actually turned out to be a strange sort of beautiful, despite the smell of burning corpses hanging heavy in the air. Clara fell in love the moment she spotted the halla, gorgeous white fur and curling horns calling out to her. The Plains stretched out and swayed softly in the breezy air, ancient statues watching ominously as the Inquisitor dragged Cassandra, Cole, and Solas past them. It was such a culture clash, to see the heavy garrisons and destroyed _chateaus_ cropping up like weeds among the sunken elven ruins.

The first night in the Plains was quiet. Smoke and magic clung heavily to her as she sat down and wrote letters to send back to Skyhold, Cassandra reading out who needed reports back. Leliana received a short letter on wind currents and possible routes in and out of the Plains. Josephine got a bundle of letters from displaced lord and ladies, along with a small note of the Inquisitor’s condolences for heaping them on her. Cullen received a letter stating that a Dalish man would be arriving soon to join up.

Clara also penned a second one for him, face burning as she wrote that she was doing well. She’d been sleeping alright and hoped he was too, she’s not taking any risks and she expected him to remember to feed himself. The Plains are war-torn, but not dangerous for her, he doesn’t need to worry. In a small line at the bottom, she asked if his withdrawal was bearing down on him, if he was okay, if his headaches were too bad, if his joints still hurt as much as they had when she had left. She asked for him to respond soon, signed a simple _Clara,_ and sealed the letter before she could think better of her foolish feelings and burn it. It would probably make better kindling than the damp green sticks they had used.

One more letter weighed on her mind, heavy and large. In the six days it took to get to the Exalted Plains, the memory of what Dorian’s face had looked like in the library clawed at her. Shame and embarrassment chased all of her fond memories with him away until she had resolved to apologize. It felt cheap to send him a letter, but she was going to be sick unless she did _something_ about it.

So she wrote a quick _I’m sorry_ with the promise to explain more when she returned. Feeling that it was too little and fearing it was too late, she scribbled a small joke about the possibility of Varric writing a novel if he forgave her and sealed it up. Clara handed the stack of letters to the rider before she could think better of it and waited the rest of the week for any new letters back.

Solas grew more and more anxious as they searched for his friend. The day after the Keeper of that clan released Loranil to the Inquisition, they found a few burned corpses. Four days into the Plains, Clara was wondering if the letter reached Skyhold already, and they found the spirit. Passages and drills about summoning circles played in her head as she looked at the looming pride demon. Solas distracted it while Clara ordered the others to smash the rocks to pieces.

It was scary, seeing the way Solas could wax from upset as the spirit faded away to the pure rage he emanated when he approached the mage. Clara considered just letting him kill him, it was no skin off her nose if the world was short a few idiots. Perhaps he even deserved it. Cole was a spirit too, what if someone had summoned and bound him? What kind of demon would he make?

But even so, she wasn’t as cold as she used to be. “Solas…” she warned, because she didn’t want him to have blood on his hands he couldn’t wash off. She also had the sneaking suspicion that the smell of that mage’s blood wouldn’t come out of her clothes.

Solas ran. Clara didn’t follow him, and she stopped Cole when he tried to. There were problems that Solas had to sort through for himself, Cole didn’t need to help him forget. The mage whom Clara had saved looked at her before running himself, and her disgust mounted. A year ago, she would have let Solas murder him. Why not? It was none of her business. But now she was softer, it was harder to just not care.

Solas didn’t return to any of the camps that night, or the three days after. The letters came back that first night he was gone, and Clara almost ripped them from the poor runner. Worry for Solas had never really taken root in her head; he was a grown man and could keep himself out of danger. The only real worry would be what he could do, but Clara found that she wasn’t even _that_ worried. She trusted him not to do anything stupid.

So she sat hunched over the fire and read every letter twice, noting the lack of a response from Dorian, before she finally picked up the Commander’s letter. She pushed the nagging worry of what Dorian could be thinking and why he didn’t send a letter out of her head, embarrassed for _caring_. Everything would be okay, he couldn’t stay mad forever. Even if he did, so what?

 _I’ll apologize again when I get back_ , she promised herself as she carefully opened the letter. _I’ll buy him those books he’s been wanting, I’ll make it up to him._

Thoughts of Dorian truly left her when she started reading the letter. It was almost sickening how she absorbed every word so carefully. He was doing fine, he had been sleeping fine, but his headaches were still there. He still got the recruits up early for drills despite his stiffness as of late; moving was good for him, though. He expressed the dearest relief that she was alright and had been sleeping well. Her heart swelled to read that his office felt emptier without her in there at night, but he had been focusing more considerably. The added “but in seriousness, it’s quieter” made her chuckle, surprise at the sound bubbling up right after she had made it.

At the end he had signed just his name, her toes warming at the familiarity. Maker’s breath, she was going to die of a fever at this rate if a _letter_ did this to her. Under his name he’d written a small PS:

 

_I played my chess game with Dorian earlier today and he asked me to tell you that he will only accept an apology in person. Did something happen?_

Clara rolled her eyes as she read the line again, then a third time and let out a snort. She pulled out paper and ink and began a response. Solas had run off, but he was sure to return. There was little of incident happening in the Plains, and she planned on returning soon to delegate what needed to be done here. She confessed to missing him and how he enjoyed speaking with her, but only a little. At the bottom she asked him to inform Dorian that the ice he was skating on was growing quite thin, signed the letter, and gave it to the rider.

Sleeping that night proved to be more difficult than she would have liked. A small stinging insect had managed to get into her tent and it kept her awake most of the night The rest was spent remembering how pleasantly warm Cullen’s office was and how his hands were covered in scars. His eyes were that beautiful Ferelden shade of golden brown and practically glittered when the sun hit it right and he was so _tall_. Maker’s breath, she felt like a child with a stupid crush all over again. He was the last person she had wanted to experience _anything_ with and now that she had forged some sort of friendship, she was unwilling to jeopardize it all with how she _felt_.

Still, it was hard being away from that lyrium thrum for so long, the memory of how it made her fingers itch with the Veil drifting over them so strong in her mind. She could fill books with how she had hated it and then loved it. The Circle at Ostwick had been sick with the stuff, the air a constant heavy metallic cloud. The Templars there were constant reminders, that lyrium burn under their skin nearly suffocating. Cullen was… comforting, though she was loathe to admit it, even to herself.

So she pushed him as hard as she could from her mind and focused on getting the remaining four hours of sleep she had left before she had to get up and find a phylactery for Vivienne.

Two day’s after Solas’ episode and she was actually worried. She had been so confident that he’d return that she hadn’t thought much about it when he _didn’t_. The third day he didn’t show, she packed the rest of her companions up and booked it back to Skyhold. The five days of travel flew by as unwanted worry and fear gnawed at her gut. It was terrible, the way she felt, both because she was terrified something had happened to him and because she wished she just didn’t _care_.

But she did, and that’s why her sigh of relief upon seeing him back at Skyhold was so heavy. A thousand things to say to him, _scream_ at him, welled up, but she pushed them down. She was the Inquisitor when she asked if he was going to be fit to work again, she couldn’t be his friend and ask if he was alright, if he was upset, if he wanted to talk about it.

When he left her with his swift goodbye and the desire to be alone, she just stood there stupidly in the courtyard. She spotted Cullen drilling troops across the yard and had to squash down the want to run over and show him she had returned in one piece, the desire to see those lovely eyes crinkle up as he looked at her. If she went to speak with him now she wouldn’t get anything done for the rest of the day, and Josephine had been very adamant in her letters that Clara get actual work done.

She walked up the large stairs, promising to see him later, after she spoke with Dorian.

* * *

 

Apologizing had never been her strong suit. As a child, she had broken one of Jules’ favorite toys, a small glass elephant that he had treasured. When it came time to own up to her mistakes, she just couldn’t say _I’m sorry_. He refused to speak with her for a week, and she had spent that time alone grieving for the death of her relationship with her brother along with also trying to glue the piece back together. In the end, she had written out her apology in that ugly handwriting that children of nine possessed and slid it under his door instead of actually telling him that she hadn’t meant it.

So here she was with Dorian, looking at him as he sat there expectantly. By the glint in his eye, she got the feeling that he wasn’t even mad anymore. He just wanted to see her squirm, and she supposed she deserved it for all those years of being horrible to everyone. It was terrifying when that simple _I’m sorry_ slid out without even the slightest hint of malice or ice. She was genuine, sickeningly real and he looked so fond when she said it, it was almost worth the intense crisis of identity she felt.

He didn’t try to hug her, and she would thank the Maker until the day she died for that. He just said that he accepted it and launched right into a terrible novel he had found around the training grounds that he figured she must read. It was a horrendous Nevarran romance that included phrases such as “his own sword of mercy,” “her rippling cunt,” and someone’s “pistoning hind-quarters.” Whatever that last one was supposed to be a metaphor for was lost on the both of them, and she took the book with a small noise of gratitude before she made herself go to Josephine. She knew he didn’t want to talk about horrible romance novels about “strapping young templars,” but it was safe ground, something familiar that neither had a particular interest in aside from how truly terrible it was.

The pile of work Josephine had was astonishing, both in its size and content. Claims of familial relations to the Inquisitor were met with near-complete disregard from Clara. She had little patience as it was for her family, any other extra cousins thrice removed were about as important to her as a spider she’d crushed earlier.

Other matters needed her attention, and by the end of the night, and having missed dinner, she cleared the pile. Josephine had practically wept with happiness that it was over and gave the Inquisitor her best wishes before she retired to her room to get some much-deserved sleep.

Clara considered following suit and catching up on her own sleep, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen even before she had started walking across the battlements with Dorian’s book clutched firmly in her hand to Cullen’s office. It was cold and windy, the ice in the air pleasant on her skin. It had been too long since she had just stood outside and let herself get bombarded by the biting air. Her skin was too warm, and the wind seemed to chase that ever-present burn from her _finally_.

When she got to his office, the door was ajar slightly, and she took it as a blind invitation. He was inside as usual, though he wasn’t working. He was standing and staring at that little wooden box, eyes transfixed on it. He only looked up when she cleared her throat, sudden anxiety building within her for having disturbed him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said softly, closing his wooden lyrium kit.

“What are you doing with that?” she asked stiffly, looking at the polished box. It looked worn and abused, over a decade of use carved in the scratches and dulled corners.

“I was… thinking.” he said evenly. She looked from the box to him and saw his measuring gaze, searching her, seeing what she was going to say.

Clara swallowed tightly, pushing down any assumptions her mind had managed to concoct in the past five seconds. “You’re not taking it again, are you?”

There was surprise followed by embarrassment on his face. He looked from her to the box, and then back again, the lines on his face darkening in the flickering light of the room. “No, of course not. I--” He sighed and picked the box up, replacing it back in a drawer of his desk before straightening up and facing her. “Some days are worse than others,” he confessed.

She was almost certain her heart was breaking from the way it seemed to constrict in an effort to stay together. Her feet dragged her closer to his desk, eyes sliding from his hands braced on the pommel of his sword to the almost-beard on his face. “Was today?” she asked gently, placing Dorian’s terrible smut novel on the desk.

He glanced down and to the side, looking as if he were testing her words against how he felt to see if today really was worse than the others. “Not so much.” He gestured to the book she’d set on the desk. “What’s that?”

She let him change the subject away from himself. A year ago, she probably would have pressed on, but now? She was so afraid of damaging whatever relationship she had managed to grow with the Commander, she was willing to give him this. “My pennance. Dorian gave it to me to read.”

“Is it really so bad?” A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes crinkling up.

“He knows I can’t stand terrible writing, but he supposed that if he had suffered through it, then I should too.”

That beautiful smile grew wider, his whole face lifting. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what was all that about with him?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, lifting the book and leaning to sit on the edge of the desk. “I… am not the nicest person, Commander. Even to my friends.” _Especially to my friends,_ she amended, though she didn’t say it. Jules had been her only friend in the Circle and after he had passed, it had just been her and the spiders that infested the library.

“He didn’t seem that upset, really,” he offered, walking around to stand next to her. This close, that lyrium burn was even heavier, and she was thankful she was sitting, her knees felt weak. The sneaking suspicion that maybe it wasn’t just the leftover lyrium in his blood that did this to her crept up, but she crushed it down.

“He wasn’t, he's just an ass.” Clara flipped the book open, thumbing the pages. “I haven’t read it yet, and I’m honestly not looking forward to it.”

“It can’t be so terrible,” he said softly, leaning over to take the book from her.

Thankful that his gloves were on so she couldn’t feel how warm his hands actually were, she handed the book to him wordlessly. Watching him scan a few pages near the middle of the book and subsequently blush was _cute_. He looked like a tomato, face a dark red, presumably from a terribly written sex scene. He handed it back to her with a muttered _“Maker’s Breath”_ and wandered towards one of his doors, hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

Her mouth twitched up into an easy smile, a chuckle pulling itself out as she watched him. “Not your cup of tea?”

He opened the door and let the cold air rush at him, face still a violent red. “Maker that was _terrible!_ ”

“I take it you’re more used to tactics manuals?” she asked politely. Her smile widened, stretching over her face until her eyes squinted. She felt like an idiot, just leaning there smiling while the wind screamed in through the open door.

“Not exactly,” he said defensively as he forced the door closed. “I just have never wanted to subject myself to _that_.”

“I’ve read worse, believe it or not.”

“I’m sure you have. You’ve read _Tales of Champion_ , yes?” He was flushed, but grinning, brown eyes happy.

She nodded. “It was exciting, actually, though Varric does certainly employ a… _different_ form of metaphor.”

 _“Different,”_ he said with a snort. “I read it after I left the Order at the behest of Cassandra. The ways he describes me are not _exactly_ how I would’ve put it.”

Clara’s mind tumbled and clicked as she tried to remember anything about him in the books. “The curly Knight-Captain?” she asked, another giggle starting to bubble up. She had known it was him in the book, but sitting here talking to him about it gave the entire situation an air of ridiculousness that she hadn’t expected.

“Maker's breath, it was so _bad_. I remember reading _‘His hair resembled a strange imported Antivan corkscrew pasta’_ and shutting the damn book for a week.” He rolled his eyes as he said it, seeming to remember the absurdity of the line.

Clara laughed again, snorts interspersed as she tried to suppress them. She briefly remembered snorting when she laughed as a child, and getting beaten swiftly by her governess. He gave her a withering look as she tried to control herself, finding it nearly impossible. She forced out an apology in between her fits of laughter, and he waited patiently, beginning the process of removing his armor for the night as she calmed down.

She stopped soon after he started, simply watching him remove the layers of plate and mail. It looked ridiculously heavy as he undid each strap and set it on the desk, layers of metal and leather forming a neat pile before he began dressing his dummy. He was meticulous, even draping and wrapping his mantle _just so_ around the shoulders of the mannequin.

“You know,” she started, still watching him adjusting his armor, “I haven’t laughed so hard since… before the Circle, I think. I had forgotten how ridiculous I sounded.”

He looked at her from over his shoulder. “You sound _fine_ , Inquisitor. Though, it wasn’t exactly enjoyable to listen to you laughing at _me.”_

Her heart swelled at his minor acceptance, but a wry smile twisted itself onto her face. “I wasn’t laughing _at you_ , Commander. He made you seem quite heroic, afterall.”

“Yes, I stopped the Knight-Commander from murdering the Champion and then let her leave as the city burned down around me.” He turned from the dummy and sighed, a hand going up to rub at his face. “I don’t want to discuss Kirkwall, if you don’t mind.” He'd told her the basics before, in Haven, though at the time she had been more inclined to hate him than she was now. She hadn't paid much attention.

“It’s fine. I just came here to see you before I retired,” she said smoothly, impressing herself with the fluidity of the half-truth. In all honesty, she looked forward to seeing him more than she cared to admit.

“I’m going to be up filling out reports if you’d like to stay?” he offered, walking around to sit behind his desk. He turned a lovely shade of pink before examining the grain of his desk and adding, “If you’d like to read that dreadful thing in here.”

She turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be a distraction?” she asked, and something in the way his gaze turned on her had her knees weak again. A voice in the back of her head whispered that she _would_ be distracting, but in the best kind of way. Another, louder, screaming voice called out that she was being ridiculous, and it was just the lyrium thrum that had her head swimming.

“Not at all,” he said softly, beautiful, lovely, _stunning_ Ferelden brown eyes quickly flicking up from where her hand was braced on the desk to her face.

She nodded at him and sat down on the small sofa. The room was still warm despite the airing-out it had received earlier, and Clara was finding it hard to really concentrate on the novel. Not that the book really _needed_ more than her barest attention, her mind wandered to the man sitting at his desk. It was hard to focus with him right there and the air so thick. She caught herself wondering if he could feel her magic the way she could feel his lyrium, or if he could feel the Veil like she could. It was a stupid thing to think, but it distracted her from the horrible book.

Eventually, after an hour or so, she heard him rise. Clara snapped to attention almost violently, startled from her thoughts. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, and it rang out in the room. She looked at him through the rungs of the ladder, flushing darkly as she watched him stretch.

He walked over to her, rubbing his right wrist as he moved to sit on the arm of the couch. “How are you faring?” he asked quietly, peering down at the book.

She looked up at him, head fuzzy from that armor polish and lyrium combination. “What were you doing over there?” she asked stupidly, struggling to recall what the book was even about. Something about a young Templar and an old merchant’s widow, if she remembered correctly.

“I was reading reports and signing off on them,” he replied, mouth quirking in that small smile he always wore.

“I hate to say that you had the more interesting reading, then,” she replied smoothly, bending the spine on the book so her hands had something to do.

“What’s it even about?”

“An aging, wealthy widow with a taste for “strapping young templars.” He has already “smote” her in the chantry, and I think it’s about to happen again,” she said dryly. A small well of pride bubbled up at being able to recall that much of the plot. Not that it even _possessed_ much of a plot.

His face wrinkled up as he made a noise of disgust. “Why is that book even at Skyhold?”

“Dorian said he found it near the sparring ring,” she said with a shrug. “It’s probably one of the soldier’s.”

“It probably belongs to a noble. I can’t imagine anyone reading this for _entertainment_.”

“You know, we had _much_ worse books at the Circle,” she said evenly, bending the spine again.

“I don’t remember books like these at any of my posts.” He looked over at the page she had been reading, a heavy blush creeping up his face again.

“Are you embarrassed, Commander?” she asked, a wicked thought beginning to burn in the back of her mind. Was he ever as innocent as the young templar recruit in the novel? She had both a difficult and easy time picturing him as a young man, twenty years old and terrified of women. An older paramore shuffling into the picture, bored and hungry, as he fell haplessly into her clutches.

Or perhaps she had been reading too much of this book.

He asserted that he was embarrassed for the writer, and not by any of the contents of the book. She teased him-- _teased him!_ \-- about how red his face was and how he fumbled. It was strange to feel so at ease, to be calm enough to talk to him so frankly. Their conversations weren’t heavy or about the Inquisition; it was just terrible literature and Circle tomes.

She regretted it when a yawn pulled itself from the Commander and she saw the purple splotches under his eyes. Her own exhaustion had been overcome by the desire to just sit there and talk to him. It wasn’t so hard to believe that she wasn’t Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan and he wasn’t Commander Cullen Rutherford when they sat together like that. It was simpler, better than it had ever been studying in the Circle, and she liked to think his breathing was easier without that Sword of Mercy burning heavy on his breastplate like it had for nearly 14 years.

And so her days went, just like they had that night. She felt rested when she woke up, no nightmares or screaming demons making her mark sizzle on her skin and no dark green dreams of reaching red lyrium nodes and a future avoided. She suddenly wasn’t so annoyed by _everything_ ; her hair wasn’t too long, she wasn’t uncomfortable in her Inquisitor finery, she apologized to Cassandra and Dorian and Blackwall and Solas for being such a beast all the time. And she meant it.

Josephine occupied most of Clara's days with paperwork, and even a tea party where she was swarmed by pilgrims and nobles alike. The hall was crowded that day, but it wasn’t so bad. That now-comforting lyrium burn told her Cullen was suffering the visitors just as much, and it lessened her load. Dorian held her attention for most of her other days, fervently discussing his research in Tevinter, demons, spirits, lyrium, enchanting, anything either of them could grasp at in a book. It was thick and saturated, conversations that left her hungry to learn more. Those discussions further pulled _Clara_ away from _Inquisitor_. She liked books and research and had a talent for winter spells, but she hated spiders and sharp swords and didn’t want to be as mean as she was. It was a mantra in her mind, a way to remember that she didn’t have to be blinded by her throne or the weight of judgement or the spirit hilt hanging heavy on her hip.

And her nights moved like clockwork. Her hands itched and her mind was always invariably drawn to that small, warm tower room. She would pack up and leave Dorian for that thick lyrium burn, welcoming the way it smacked her as soon as she walked into the room. It made her fingers ache pleasantly, the thrum of it so much like magic. The way she couldn’t think when Cullen was around was good, better than she was with Dorian when she thought too much, or when she sparred with Cassandra and thought too little and too late. In the war room, he was Commander Cullen, but at night, while she curled up on that small couch and tried to read while he read reports or polished his armor, he was just Cullen.

It was hard for her to remember a time when he had been the Templar, and she wondered if he had ever truly been since she’d known him. Varric and Hawke had both confirmed that he used to stand tall and solid in his Chantry plate and mail, but by the end he had bent over. Those years since the Knight-Commander’s body had petrified left him too little. One night, the fourth one since she had gotten that damned book, she almost asked him what it had been like to see everything his life had been about for 14 years cave in like a mineshaft, but she didnt. She didn’t want to be mean anymore. If anything, he deserved closure, a kind of peace of mind that those mistakes weren’t still sinkholes that he had to fix.

So when the report came back from Josephine that the Emprise du Lion was clear to enter, she rushed to tell him.

He had been drilling soldiers: keep your shields up, put _force_ into it, don’t block with the edge of the blade. Swords rang as she said the Emprise was freed and she’d be leaving tomorrow. Old resolve and new fear creased his face with news of the frozen rivers and reaching quarries. He thanked her for telling him, stiff and reserved, and she didn’t go to see him that night. It was the seventh since her homecoming and first that she hadn’t sat on that couch and thumbed through that Nevarran romance, and she figured it was only hunger from skipping dinner out of anxiety that gave her a hollow feeling in her stomach.

When she left the next morning, she said goodbye to him again, and he still told her to be safe. Regular Templars rendered her a mess that could hardly move, and red ones drove spears through her guts, had her gasping as she was silenced. That fear was there again in his lovely eyes, honest and too bare, and it was too much. Clara was cut off, and she was the Inquisitor when she backed away so he wouldn’t touch her, when she told him he couldn’t be afraid, lied to him about not being afraid herself.

Emprise du Lion took nine days to get to. Nine days of red lyrium dreams and Sera trying to get her to smile. Nine days of Bull handing her stories of his exploits while her fingers throbbed from the thinness of the Veil. Nine days of her mark crackling and Cassandra giving her sleeping potions and pieces of dried fruit that she didn’t know how desperately she needed. She snapped at them as they tried to help, take her mind off of whatever had settled in it like a lead ball. They were all caring and more than she deserved, respect and _kindness_ falling off of them in different ways.

All in all, the Inquisitor only stayed in the Emprise for four days. One for planning the storm on the keep, one for execution. Then, another to plan the raid on the quarry and the next for completion. Her skin felt tight and itchy, grimy and she regretted not taking Cole, but was glad he wouldn’t have to feel how _wrong_ it was to breathe here.

It was all she could do not to vomit at the twisted lyrium air. Red Templars froze her to the spot, covering her all wrong, and it was all she could do to hack them apart with the heavy spirit blade. Even the Veil felt wrong here, thin as it was. The pieces of it that she could grasp, pull at for her own use where thin and slippery, not enough to push out frost or lightning. She felt useless as she groped for a hold against the hulking crystal monstrosities, fighting through giants and deformed Templars alike, unable to do more than stumble from the weight of the oppressive red air.

When the keep was retaken, she got a moment to rest, fitful sleep and healing magic that felt like it was stitching her back together wrong. It had been hard, but at least she had had Bull and Cassandra. She didn’t have to worry about Sera getting close to the demons and red Templars, Bull and Cassandra were veritable walls, those shields in the dark that had saved her life more times than she had fingers to count.

The mines were another matter altogether, though. It had been excruciating, hard crystals that burned and grinded into her when she touched them. They left burn marks that peeked out angrily from between her freckles, massive red welts that screamed as she tried to grasp her staff or blade. It made her hands too clumsy to reach her magic, those thin strands just whispering away before she could grab them.

But she got the letters, and she freed the captives, and she _got out_. The ride back took 12 days of windburn and vomiting, safe enough to not be the Inquisitor as she succomned to the red lyrium blanket over her. Days were smoother after she evacuated her roiling gut. To be safe, she didn’t eat anything more than the bits of dried things Cassandra continued to give her. It felt more like a penance than a precaution, but for what, she couldn’t quite place.

Skyhold was a welcome sight in the distance. Tall and cutting and wonderfully _not_ red, she almost fell from her saddle trying to dismount in the courtyard. Her stomach clenched hungrily and her eyes hurt, but she was _home_ , safe, away from those red spires.

Clara slept the rest of the day, and well into the next. Upon waking, she was fed and examined, advisors each fretting in their own way as Cassandra radiated frustration. The simple food they gave her was perhaps the most delicious thing she had ever eaten, and it occurred to her as she ate it too quickly that she hadn’t actually eaten a real meal in weeks; they’d all just been odd bits of grabbed food, those things that Cassandra gave her and what Josephine and Cullen and Dorian had reminded her to eat.

She wasn’t sick, it was determined. Just stress, all stress, it was always stress, but this was different and she felt it in her guts. Angry red lyrium reaching up high into the pale skies pierced her dreams and left her mark aching all up her arm. It was fear and anxiety and that acute sensitivity she had always felt for lyrium mounted on top of the weight of _Inquisitor_ that pressed on her from all sides, but especially from above.

Shame heaped itself on as well, and it followed her into Cullen’s office. She dragged her feet there after speaking to Vivienne about potions or spells she could possibly use that could stop the way the red nodes grinded on her skin. The enchanter had offered nothing more than a resolute promise to _try_ , and Clara supposed it was good enough.

Cullen came to her immediately once she opened the door. Careful concern creased his face, along with dark circles and light stubble. He looked tired and worn out, and she fleetingly wondered if he had lost so much sleep from that worry he seemed to feel for her.

“Inquisitor!” he exclaimed, hands too large and clumsy as he didn’t know where to place them on her. There was that title again, and she was back in that freezing tent in the frostbacks, that cold bowl of stew sitting there as he called her by her name for the last time.

“I’m fine, Commander,” she said softly, eyes casting down with frustration as she felt his heavy hands on her shoulders. She brought a hand up to rub at her scar, the old habit coming back, but without the crippling shame this time.

He studied her face, golden eyes that crinkled as he seemed to consider every freckle on her skin. Those hands were warm and firm, and his lyrium burn was so familiar and welcome, she could have cried. It must have showed on her face, because he gave her shoulders a tight squeeze, but he didn’t hug her. She wanted to reach up and press herself along him, feel her fingernails _clink_ against that armor, get closer to that metallic comfort he radiated. Her face was turned up towards him then, body wound tight under his hands, and she was grasped by the sudden want to see what his stubble would feel like against her face, or under her fingertips. The _want_ to press her lips against his--

She took a deep breath and shrugged his hands off, then told him about the letters she had recovered. That old failure cropped up on his face again, and it was easier for her to breathe. He was upset, angry, resolute, and she left him because she couldn’t be alone with him any longer. The war council later was done fast, Maddox would be found. Cullen’s face was dark, pretty eyes looking all wrong. Fourteen years of addiction and disappointment were written heavy in those lines and dark circles. Clara didn’t go to see him that night, both afraid of what she might do and what he could let her do.

Before retiring, Josephine confessed her family’s troubles. A trip to Val Royeaux was just the thing Clara needed to clear her head, and she _wanted_ to help Josephine. It was only four days, and then she’d be back at Skyhold and she’d feel better. Maybe her stomach wouldn’t always hurt and she’d sleep better. She could find a pair of gloves to cover her mark.

She didn’t see Cullen to say goodbye when she left the next morning, just wrote him a small letter that she had a runner give to him. She wasn’t sure what she would see when she looked at him, whether it be concern for her or anger at himself for Samson, and she didn’t want his pity.

The trip took only a day and a half of a carriage ride along the Imperial Highway. Cole, Vivienne, and Cassandra accompanied her and Josephine, and it was a very pleasant trip. Val Royeaux was truly beautiful, and it reminded her of her mother when she heard everyone there talking. The thick Orlesian accents had her remembering her language and culture lessons at her family’s estate, and some of the words even came back to her, though her accent was terrible as always.

They spent the rest of that second travel day going around the shops, Josephine’s contact apparently not meeting until the next day. Cole was fascinated by every hat he came across, his soft voice chattering excitedly as he picked up a large one with a mass of flowers at the top. He replaced his floppy _chevalier_ helmet and put it on immediately, then took it off and placed it on Clara’s head. The genuine kindness in his pale eyes almost killed her, and she was left with no other options than to buy the hat for him. He still didn’t put it on, and the next day, when they met Josephine’s contact, he had stowed it away in the carriage they had taken.

The entire conversation about the contract on Josie’s life left her with a bad taste in her mouth. Her fingers felt stiff and cold as she stood to menace the man, but she just _couldn’t_ bring herself to kill him, as much as she really wanted to. She wanted her old ruthlessness back and her ability to just _not_ care.

But Josephine’s life was at stake and how Clara _wanted_ to be didn’t matter. So he left, and they followed suit, returning to Skyhold a day early. The very real fear that Josephine could be assassinated had everyone sedated, but Clara would not let it happen. She brushed Josephine’s concerns away with smooth words and easy reassurance, but the whole situation just added a whole new layer to the ever present need to vomit.

The homecoming to Skyhold was a small affair. It was almost night time, just barely dusk anymore, the ice-covered mountains shining an iridescent purple. People were milling about while a few soldiers were in the sparring ring, overseen by the Commander. Josephine was shuffled carefully into the hold and placed in her office, where Leliana suggested just breaking into the House of Repose while Josephine put forth something more legal. The war council was summoned and dismissed promptly, Josephine getting to work with elevating the DuParaquettes. She wasn’t to go anywhere in Skyhold without regular guards around her.

Clara didn’t go to see Dorian afterward. Instead, she made her way to Vivienne who handed her a sleeping potion, a small vial that would put her out like a snuffed candle. She clutched at the flask and Vivienne’s uncharacteristically kind words, asking Clara to inform her if anything changed.

She didn’t want to have to go see Cullen so badly, but she did anyway, her feet pulling her to his small, warm room.

He sat behind his desk, eyes closed and one hand holding his head. Clara’s chest felt tighter as she looked at him, gently pushing the door open so she didn’t disturb him. He could have been asleep, save for the way his eyes shot open when the door hinge squeaked.

He blinked at her blearily, but gave a watery smile. “I was hoping you’d stop by before you retired,” he said softly, quietly, honestly.

Maker’s breath, he had to have been put here just to kill her, it seemed. “Are you alright?” She was at his desk instantly, bottle nearly broken by how tightly she was holding it. The hand that had been holding his face was shaking slightly, but he clenched it into a tight fist.

He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes, a groan pulling itself out as he pressed his eyeballs into his head. He opened them again and looked at her, and it punched her how _beautiful_ he was with those eyes. “I’ll be fine. You shouldn’t worry about me, Inquisitor.”

“How can I not?” she replied breathlessly, a joke in her voice, though she still felt that uncomfortable hollow ache. “I have to make sure my advisors are all doing well.”

“I think Josephine should be your top priority,” he said, smile like the sun pulling at his lips.

“We’re on top of that. But right now, are you alright?”

“I was-- _am_ \--” he grated out before sighing. “I have a headache.”

“Lyrium?” she asked, mind flipping like a catalogue through all those books she had read. _Headaches, nightmares, flashbacks, shaking--_

“Not entirely,” he said with a shrug. “I should eat, and I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Me either,” she said quickly, latching onto the idea that it was something she could fix. “I could ask for something from the kitchens to be brought up.”

He looked at her, his eyes just like they had been before, and she held her hands tightly to stop herself from covering her face. Another smile stretched across his mouth, eyes lighting up as he nodded and said that would be wonderful.

And so she had dinner with him. It was simple and nice, and she hadn’t realised how much she had come to love just talking to him. That lyrium thrum in the air no longer made her skin prickle with that fear of the Circle, it was just something else about _him_. She caught herself describing how she used magic, though she was positive he knew all about it already. He still let her blather on and on about how she did it, how it worked, and he asked questions, basic ones, but still the interest was there.

It was a hard feeling to come to, and it dawned on her as they exchanged stories from when they were children, before the Chantry crashed down and sealed them in, but she was friends with him. A year ago, she would have laughed, _if_ she had ever laughed then. It would have been hilarious, really, that she cared about him so deeply it almost hurt.

And he cared about her too. It was written in the way his eyes picked at each freckle on her face, or how he watched her hands, his eyes sliding up each finger as she showed him how she pulled her magic through. Those lovely eyes squinted when he smiled at her, and he laughed so beautifully, it was going to cause her death with the way it made her heart beat faster. His honest voice and the way his hands and face talked more than his mouth had her spinning, he was so refreshingly _real_. Circles were all secrets and fumbling in the dark, whispers of possession and blood magic seeping through the cracks in the wall like groundwater.

As he told her about when he was small in Honnleath, she wondered how he had ever survived being knight-captain, and then the de facto knight-commander. Did the whispers in the Kirkwall Circle bend him over until he broke, or did they make him into something else? How much of the commander in front of her was the boy who chased geese around with a bucket on his head when he was a child, and how much was that man who watched the city--citizens-- _duty_ \--he was supposed to protect cave down?

From the way he didn’t want to speak of it, she knew he wasn’t either anymore.

She stayed there late into the night again, and took Vivienne’s potion that night before sleeping. As she had promised, no dreams and it had been nearly impossible to wake up, but she felt so much _better_. The next day she tackled the stack of letters and reports on her desk, clearing half the pile before she wandered down to the hall to thank Vivienne. She took the thanks easily, handing her another, much larger flask.

“For you, my dear,” she said, smile pulling her lips back. “One spoonful is enough for a night. If you need anymore, do not be afraid to ask.”

Clara was grateful and suddenly grasped by the strange urge to hug the senior mage. She resisted, but squeezed her hand in thanks before leaving to find Cassandra. She asked to look for the missing Seekers, and Clara summoned the war council immediately to search. Out of all of her companions, Cassandra was the one who looked after her the most. She wasn’t kind, but she was that strong wall Clara needed to lean on. The Seeker held her upright with her faith, and she spurred the Inquisitor on with her devotion.

The Commander was her last stop before going back to her work. She greeted him with a smile, which he returned, almost outshining the sun hanging heavily overhead. His armor nearly blinded her as he waved her over, the soldiers he was drilling, snapping to attention as the Inquisitor approached.

Cullen’s mouth was quirked up in that smirk he always wore as he gave her the report on the men. Then he sent them back to their drills as he quietly thanked her for last night.

She blushed darkly, red from the ends of her hair to her toes, she was sure. Her hand wanted to go to his face, feel his now-cleanshaven cheek, drag her fingers down that scar and across his lips. She forced it to just stay on his elbow, between the plates so he could feel her reassuring squeeze. He gave her another smile, pink blush spreading on his cheeks as she left to go back to work.

Later, a runner came in and handed her the report that they had located Samson’s headquarters. This time, though, she didn’t run to Cullen immediately, she didn’t want him to get that creased-up look of failure on his face again. So she waited until it was nearly midnight, and she was leaving Dorian with the Nevarran romance and their nook in the library, to go and see him. At this point, she knew he would be awake; he hardly ever slept.

The weary, _happy_ smile he gave her actually did break her heart this time. It was hard telling him Samson was found and watching that small sunny smile fall into the heavy guilt and anger. She was gentle, and it was so strange for her, scarier than any nightmare could have been when she said she was going to leave the next day.

When he said he was coming with her, those reaching red nodes cracked through her head again. The _hate_ in his eyes was hard, harder than the rage in his voice. He counted this along with his personal failures--Kirkwall, Meredith, _Samson_. He didn’t have to shoulder it alone, she _had_ to convey that to him because she couldn’t just tell him. She couldn’t spit it out, her tongue didn’t know how to form the words.

So her hands, the ones his eyes always slid up on his way to her face, grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. The same reassuring gesture he always used on her seemed to bring him back a little, and those fleeting visions of her body against his flashed in her mind again, her face flushing. He nodded, eyes gorgeous and sincere, and the thoughts of his lips on hers left.

She hoped he counted on her as much as she counted on him, and she didn’t want to leave him that night, just wanted to stand there and be there for _him_ as much as he had been for _her_. But she saw him to bed and wandered back to her own room and considered the flask Vivienne had given her. Those tame ideas of what his fingers would feel like running across her lips had her blushing again, far too hard for how _innocent_ the thoughts were. The bottle was placed down unused, Clara wanting to take the chance that he would be in her dreams in place of the reaching red demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo this one was wild ride. As always, I'd really appreciate any feedback you can give me!


	7. Tu es mon meilleur ami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was looking at her with his beautiful eyes, dark in the mediocre candlelight. It was warm and close and immediate, and she couldn’t fathom how she could ever want to be this close to a _Templar_. She was staring right back up at him, and her knees almost went out from under her, she was so _afraid_ of doing anything that could tell him how much she cared or how much she just wanted to _kiss him_.

The next day they packed up and left. Varric, Cassandra, and Blackwall accompanied her and the Commander. The journey only took a few days, but as each one passed, Cullen receded further into himself. Clara tried to speak to him the first couple of days, but as they pressed on he only grew more somber. Five days into travel to the Shrine of Dumat, she found herself willing to give nearly anything to get him to just _smile_ at her again.

They arrived at the shrine after seven days of travel. It was crumbling and out of the way, a desolate place filled with burning red crystals.

“Dumat was the first archdemon,” Blackwall stated as they neared the broken entrance.

“Hawke says that Corypheus claims to be a priest of Dumat,” Clara said as she removed her stave and gripped her spirit hilt. “It must have felt fitting to base his operations here.”

Varric pulled his crossbow around and scoffed. “For a darkspawn, he’s awfully sentimental.”

Cassandra stood close to the Inquisitor and Cullen, her eyes shifting from one to other regularly. A sick feeling of shame welled up inside of Clara at Cassandra’s caution. She didn’t need to be watched, she could take care of herself. The red lyrium sickness at Emprise du Lion was a fluke, she could _handle_ it.

But both women shared the same fear of what would happen to the Commander.

His face was creased and dark as they looked at the state of the headquarters. It was broken and burning, the walls and ceiling caving in. Corpses were strewn everywhere, and red templars swarmed out as they crossed into the crumbling courtyard.

They weren’t as hard to kill as Clara remembered. Her magic wasn’t as useless as it had been before, she could reach for it and pull it through more easily. That heavy hilt in her hand cut them in half before they could Silence her, a firm reminder that these things could be killed. Maybe she was getting used to them and their red lyrium burn. Maybe it was how Cullen placed himself in front of her like a wall, tall and alive with his own blue thrum.

A shadow crept up behind her, screaming as it fought to jam those sharp red nodes through her. It touched her, just barely, before both Cassandra and Cullen descended on it and smacked it into glittering pieces, remnants of the Templar is used to be spilling out from the between the gleaming crystals. Clara had stumbled back, falling as she fought to close the gash it had opened on her side, fumbling at her belt for a potion to stop the burning. Her teeth bit into her lip hard, blood welling as she finally grasped a flask and splashed some on the cut before drinking the rest.

Cullen and Cassandra both lifted her, pulling her up as if she weighed nothing.

Cassandra was the first to speak, thick voice ringing out in the now-silent courtyard. “Are you alright? Did it touch you?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Clara asserted, pushing their hands off of herself. “It cut me, I’m fine.”

“We should’ve seen it sooner--” Cullen started, eyes that same concerned she knew so well, but he was cut off by Varric.

“This place isn’t exactly homebase material!” he called out as he ran over, Blackwall close behind him.

Cullen straightened up and looked away from the Inquisitor, replacing his sword in its sheathe. “Samson better be here,” he said, all Commander with a hard line for a mouth.

The look Cassandra shared with Clara cleared that they all _knew_ Samson wouldn’t be here. But still, they pressed on further into the building. The closer they came to the inside, the heavier the flames got, the thick smoke choking out both the red lyrium and Cullen’s metallic smell.

Maddox was lying on the floor, all but dead, and the calm way he accepted his death left them all rattled. That brand on his forehead had Clara staring, remembering the stockrooms of the Circle. Those Tranquil with their soft quiet voices and small footsteps the constant background noise of those 14 years.

She wrenched her eyes away from his body when Cullen said to search the area. He didn’t look as hard as he had earlier, but more vexed. Another failure he was going to hang up next to Kirkwall and Samson and Haven. Her hand reached out for him, mark bubbling quietly in the heavy air, but she pulled back. Now wasn’t the time for light touches and reassuring fingers.

The entire crumbling temple was searched top to bottom, the bent remains of Maddox’s tools found. The group left quickly, the shrine left as a burning husk behind them. Clara could feel the Veil get stronger as they left, the strands of it feeling heavier, more substantial. It was easier to think when they were away, and it was a relief, but worry chased it as well.

“Commander,” she said quietly as she entered his tent the night after the raid at the shrine.

He was sitting at a small table, occupying one of the two chairs. The air had that wonderful lyrium thrum to it, so much better than the red cloud that had hung heavy in the shrine. The tent was too short for her to stand fully, and as she looked at him, she remembered that small tent in the Frostbacks. Their positions were reversed now, though, but the similarity was eerie.

“Inquisitor,” he replied, voice dry. He had been reading all of the documents they had salvaged from the shrine. She spotted the letters she had gotten months ago in the Graves amongst the papers.

She walked in and sat in the open chair, leaning back and looking at him. Her eyes laid on his face pointedly as she waited for him to say something. She didn’t know if he wanted to talk about it, but she did. He wasn’t going to shoulder this himself if she could help it.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sighing.

Clara rolled her eyes and shifted in the chair. “How are _you_ , Cullen?”

“I’m _fine_. I wasn’t speared by any of the red Templars.” He smoothed a hand down his face, beard scratching against the leather of his gloves. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want to know how you’re _doing_.” She leaned forward and placed her hands in front of her on the table, there if he wanted them.

He looked at them and swallowed, those sweet eyes moving up her fingers. “I’m… angry. Inquisitor.” He tacked on her title at the end, an extra thing to say so his admission didn’t sound so large.

“Because we missed Samson? Or because you think it’s your fault we missed Samson?” Her hands drew back and rubbed across her face, pulling her hair out of the tight bun and tugging on the strands.

“Inquisitor, you don’t _understand_ , if I hadn’t allowed Samson to be reinstated, none of this would be happening. That shrine wouldn’t look like that, and Corypheus wouldn’t have his general.” He watched her braid her hair, mouth pressed into a hard line.

Clara didn’t answer right away, she just concentrated on controlling her breathing. Eventually, when the braid was almost done, she looked from her fingers to him and found him watching her hands again. “You honestly think that he wouldn’t have gotten someone else to lead his Templars? Cullen, I can tell you with complete certainty that this would have happened with or without Samson.”

“You can’t know that,” he said softly, eyes looking anywhere that wasn’t her. He believed her, and she knew it from the way those lines on his face relaxed, but it was that staunch honesty and need to carry responsibility that stopped him from admitting it.

“I do,” she replied airily with a flick of her wrist. “And even if this was your fault, which it’s _not_ , Samson made his bed. And then burned it, it would seem.”

He gave her a smile for her attempt at levity, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Your confidence is refreshing, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s not confidence, it’s common sense. You have it, I’ve seen you use it.” She tied the braid off and pushed a few stray hairs behind her ears. Her eyes found his and she softened, the venom in her voice draining. “You need to forgive yourself, Cullen.”

He looked away from her again, seeming to find the weave of the tent fascinating. When he didn’t respond for a few moments, Clara stood. His eyes snapped back to her, evidently afraid she would leave. “Are you going?” he asked breathlessly.

“Do you want me to?” she asked, eyebrow raising. She felt her scar pull tightly and lifted a hand to rub at it.

“No!--I just--if you _don’t_ want to stay, I would understand,” he forced out, tripping over his words.

His stammering had her rolling her eyes at him. “Do _you want_ me to?”

He cleared his throat, a pink blush spreading out on his face. “No. I don’t.”

She went back to the chair and pulled it closer to him, sitting down when she was close enough to grab his hands. He didn’t pull away when she had them in her own, so much smaller than his. Her fingers pulled his gloves off, placing them aside as she held his wrists. Her hands were long and thin, ‘mage hands’ Ridella had always teased her. It had just been a joke, until it wasn’t. His were broad and flat, covered in scars and thick pads of callous. Maker’s _breath_ , how she loved his hands.

“Where did you get all of these?” she murmured, eyes sliding over each scar. Some were thick and raised, others were narrow white lines that left a lattice on his skin.

She heard him swallow tightly, a small blush of triumph blooming on her face at the sound. “Most are from Kirkwall,” he said evenly, slowly. “A few are from training accidents.”

She dragged a finger across a long one on his palm, old and almost completely faded. “This one?”

“I was helping my father cut down wheat and I slipped and fell onto a sickle.” He turned his hands over and grabbed hers, his thick fingers with the dusting of golden hair so different from her pale freckled ones. His thumbs drew smooth circles over the backs of her hands, warm and comforting.

“How long ago was that?” She felt his fingers brush over her mark, nothing but a wide, thick scar at this point. She was glad that it hadn’t chosen this moment to glow and pop loudly.

“A little less than 22 years, at this point,” he replied quietly. Clara looked up at him and saw him staring down at where his hands were making small circles. He looked calmer, not as angry as he had since they left for the shrine. She got a little more peace of mind for seeing him like that and knowing she had helped.

“And that scar?” she asked, quiet voice suddenly so loud in the tent, as she inclined her head at his face.

As if suddenly remembering it was there, he blinked a few times and brought one of his hands up to rub at the scar on his lip. A queer smirk tugged at his lips and he replaced his hand back over hers. “It was the year after the rebellions started in Kirkwall. I was leading a group of Templars against a blood mage that had taken the chaos as her chance to gather a large number of thralls. We went in to find her, and during all the fighting, my helmet was knocked off and an apostate’s staff blade nearly sliced my face in half.”

His eyes flicked up from their hands up to her face, and she knew he was looking at that scar on her eye. Her face heated up, sudden fear and shame overtaking her. Her fingers itched to be out of his hands and her throat felt drier than sand. He was going to ask _again_ and she’d have to tell him because she’d started this whole business.

But then his eyes went back to her hands, fingers squeezing her gently before he released her and she could breathe again. He didn’t ask anything, just gave her a soft thanks for speaking with him before saying that he was retiring. It wasn’t a very subtle means of getting rid of her, but it was gentle. She took the hint and nearly ran from his tent, the cool night air welcome on her overheated face. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his fingers and their rough pads rubbing slowly over her hands.

She crawled into her own tent and fell asleep. Her dreams were of how beautiful his eyes were, cut through by those scarred soldier’s hands he possessed.

* * *

 

The remainder of the trip to Skyhold was not as heavy the trip to the shrine. All three of Clara’s companions noted the change in the Commander’s demeanor. It was lighter, not as dark as it had been for the days before. However, Clara avoided him on the return trip, the feeling of his fingers refusing to leave her. Her gut clenched when she looked at him, and while she found herself waiting to go see him nearly every night, she stopped herself. It was this inexpressible fear that she would mess something up or say the wrong thing and she’d ruin _whatever_ relationship she had with him. If she was being honest with herself, she was terrified.

So that fourth night of travel, she stayed out in front of the campfire and stared at it. Frustration at being yet again unable to light anything larger than a candle was gnawing away at her. She had tried to light the fire again, but Blackwall had come along and struck one up. As she sat there next to Varric, Cassandra exited the Commander’s tent and sat down next to the Inquisitor.

Varric worked on making himself scarce surprisingly fast. Cassandra looked at the place he had just occupied and groaned. “He is terrified of me,” she observed, looking at the Inquisitor.

Clara shrugged. “You kidnapped him and broke his nose.”

“I know. I was beginning to think Varric wasn’t afraid of anything, however.”

“He’s afraid of a lot of things,” Clara started, a smile tugging at her lips. “Blood mages, Bianca backfiring, the tavern running out of beer, to name a few.”

Cassandra groaned again and looked towards the fire. “He is too clever by half, and you’re just as bad.”

“You’re giving me too much credit. Varric has a gift for metaphor that I simply do not possess.” Clara chewed on her bottom lip, smile stretching out regardless. To say that she felt safer with Cassandra was an understatement; the Seeker was that fine line between Clara’s impending doom and protection. That shield that protected her, told her to get some rest, gave her food, reminded her of the faith that not only she held, but that so many others held in her as well.

“I have noticed the Commander is in a better mood since you visited him the other night,” the Seeker remarked casually, pulling a wedge of cheese and half a loaf of bread from her bag. She broke both in half and gave one of each to Clara, who accepted them quietly.

She looked at the food in confusion for a moment before remembering she had skipped dinner. A small pang of shame hit her as she realized Cassandra must have noticed. She took a bite of each to appease the Seeker, finding them to be hard and slightly stale, but the sentiment was still there. “He was being too depressive,” she said eventually.

“He is very hard on himself,” Cassandra agreed. “And I am glad that you spend so much time together.”

The Inquisitor felt her face blush deeply, skin viciously hot especially so close to the fire. She cleared her throat and rubbed at her scar absently, embarrassed that Cassandra _noticed_. “The Inquisition needs its commander at his full potential.”

“Is that really all it was about?” Something in Cassandra’s voice told Clara that she knew the truth. That Clara couldn’t spend enough time with him, that it terrified her how much she cared about him, that she had come to love his eyes and his hands and his lips.

“I’m friends with him,” she replied evenly. She pressed the rest of the bread loaf into her mouth so she couldn’t admit anything else.

Cassandra looked softer, her eyebrows losing their usual tension, as she turned towards Clara. “It is a comfort knowing you two get along.”

“Because I’m a mage?” she shot back quickly, that old wound bleeding again. Years of qualifiers and fear, and for what? Because she could frost a window and light candles?

“You were extremely hostile in the beginning, and to the Commander especially. I am glad to see it is not so anymore.” It was the way Cassandra spoke that had Clara both accepting and angered. Her words had such conviction, like she could make you believe anything. It was a comparison Clara was willing to make to Varric, in that they both had that way of speaking that made you want to believe them, albeit in different ways. Varric practically enchanted you and Cassandra _made_ you believe.

Clara reflected back on when she had first arrived. She had chafed on everyone since she had met them, even going so far as to go to the mages simply because Cullen had been so vehemently opposed to it. It was a petty thing to do and could have ended horribly. It _did_ end horribly, but then again, that ending never happened. Cassandra and Cullen never died at Haven, Leliana was never taken captive. Blackwall and Varric never had red lyrium pressed into them, growing into their bones.

All in all, Clara _knew_ she was petty to risk so much just to get back at a Templar.

“I was wrong about everyone,” she said eventually. “I haven’t exactly been easy to live with, especially in the beginning. I’m… sorry for being such a beast. Honestly, I’d be dead several times over if you hadn’t been there, Cassandra.”

“You have apologized for your actions already, Inquisitor. Still, it is nice to hear that I am appreciated.” Cassandra placed a hand on the Inquisitor’s knee and squeezed, a simple gesture.

“Do you really think I’m the Herald of Andraste?” Clara blurted, the sudden need to test the length of Cassandra’s faith practically eating her.

The Seeker didn’t miss a beat. “Of course. I believe that the the Maker works in mysterious ways and that his circumstance put you here.” Cassandra frowned at her, eyes intense as she examined her. “Did something happen?”

“No, nothing,” Clara said too quickly. Her hands fumbled with the hem of her coat and she felt like a ridiculous child for having asked when she knew the answer.

“You can tell me, Clara,” the Seeker said, voice hard and strong like iron.

Clara let her breath out in a huff. “You have so much faith, Cassandra. Not just in me, but in everyone. And you’ve _seen_ me try to handle responsibility. I forget to feed myself and I don’t sleep enough and I’m terrified of spiders, but you’re still _there_.” Her hands flew to her face and rubbed her eyes, pressing the angry tears back in. She was mad at Cassandra’s staunch belief in her and at how she protected her and how she _noticed_ when she wasn’t well.

Cassandra was silent for almost an entire minute. It was perhaps the most painful fifty-seven seconds of Clara’s life, and she contemplated throwing herself onto the fire in an effort to staunch her own private burning before Cassandra answered.

“None of those things diminish who you are. You led us out of the Void, Inquisitor, and it is my duty to protect you. I believe you can stop Corypheus and I am not going to stand idly by and let you doubt yourself.” The Seeker stood and pulled Clara up with her.

Their eyes were almost of a level, Cassandra being slightly taller. Her hands were heavy on Clara’s shoulders, strong, firm, grounding, but in a different way from Cullen’s. She was conveying belief that Clara could be strong whereas his hands told her it was alright to be soft. The Seeker really was like iron, powerful and necessary, that protection Clara needed from their adversaries and from herself.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” Clara said earnestly.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, slight smile pulling at her mouth. “I also wished to ask you, how are you feeling after the shrine?”

“I feel _fine_. Maker’s breath, I’m not _that_ bad around red lyrium, am I?” Frustration was beginning to build again. She wasn’t fragile, she wasn’t the delicate mage flower, she had beat things to death with just her hands.

“No, but we are all worried what it can do. We don’t know anything about it, past what it did to the Templars. So, are you alright?” She took her hands away and folded her arms in front of her chest.

Clara sighed. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just… different. I’m a mage, and I’ve always been particularly sensitive to lyrium. It feels different and it’s distracting. It feels _wrong_.”

Cassandra’s brows knitted together, heavy over her eyes. “How so?”

“Like…” Clara deliberated for an adequate answer. In all of her talks with Dorian and Dagna about it, they just understood. Dorian was a mage and Dagna seemed to be two steps from insane, they both knew what she meant. The other mages at Skyhold also shared her feeling, though in varying levels. “Like a shirt that’s too tight and it hurts to breathe. Or gloves that fit wrong and you can’t make a fist. Or cotton stuffed into your ears, or maybe a rock in your shoe. It’s just uncomfortable, and being around so much at once was overwhelming.”

Cassandra nodded, taking in her half-baked descriptions with a slight frown. “Thank you for speaking with me, Inquisitor. Now, you should get some rest, you looked ready to fall off your mount today.”

Clara swallowed tightly as Cassandra left her there for her own tent, alone by the fire with a stiff breeze blowing the smoke into her eyes.

* * *

 

Clara gently rapped her knuckles against the frame of the door to Cullen’s office. When he softly called for her to come in, she walked in slowly, quietly shutting the door behind her. He was there behind his desk, still dressed in his armor and robe.

“I thought you would have gone to sleep by now,” she murmured as she went to his desk.

He rubbed a hand over his face, mouth going up in that smile. “I was gone for three weeks, I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

“We got back an hour ago, it’s okay if you take the rest of the day off, Cullen.” She had woken Dagna up to give her the tools they had salvaged and the dwarf had nearly gone into a manic state at the prospect of fiddling with them.

“Is that an official order from the Inquisitor?”

It felt like a challenge, those lovely amber eyes daring her to give an order. She didn’t rise to the bait, for once. “No, it’s an observation from your friend.”

He sighed through his nose and poked at the pile of papers at his desk. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, looking at her sideways.

The last time she'd had any alcohol around him she’d nearly died of embarrassment. However, she could almost feel his hands on the back of her neck and hip, rubbing soothing circles into her skin. “Couldn’t hurt.”

He took a decanter and poured her a glass of something ruddy. It smelled like it could singe her eyebrows off, and only when she tasted it and nearly gagged did she correctly identify it as whiskey.

He looked at her watering eyes and drawn lips and chuckled. “Not to your tastes?”

“No, it’s fine,” she managed. “The best paint thinner I’ve ever had.”

He smiled her, eyes crinkling up beautifully. He still hadn’t shaved since they returned, stubble that could now safely be called a beard covering his jaw and cheeks. This was going to kill her, she was going to die from just _looking_ at him. All blond hair and beautiful golden eyes, he looked exactly like those illustrations from her Ferelden history books.

She was leaned up against his desk, looking up at him. He brought a hand, still gloved, up to push a stray hair behind her ear. Her swallow was thicker than normal and she sipped her glass for something to do that didn’t involve staring at his mouth.

“The return trip from the shrine was harder than I would have expected,” he said suddenly, turning away from her with a hand on the back of his neck.

“Excuse me?” she asked, mind still reeling from his unexpected touch.

“The weather was hard and I hadn’t expected the mud to be that deep,” he went on, face blushing a dangerous red.

“Do you really want to discuss mud?” She set her glass down on his desk and stood up straight.

“No, I’m--sorry,” he said, coughing slightly. He cleared his throat and seemed to compose himself. “I’m just practicing what I’m going to tell Josephine when she scolds me for being away for so long.”

Clara groaned. “Maker’s breath, I forgot about Josephine. I saw the pile of paperwork on my desk, she’s going to _kill_ me when she wakes up.”

Cullen laughed again, warm and _lovely_. He finished his glass and poured another, offering her the decanter before replacing it back on the shelf when she declined. He stood by her, and she couldn’t breathe anymore because he was _right there_. That lyrium thrum that felt so right was buzzing in her head. She couldn’t remember it being this bad at the Circle, and it was _heavier_ there. The lyrium burn was always in the air, a constant reminder of the Templars there, and it had never been a comfort. But here, now, in Cullen’s small office? She couldn’t think of anything that put her more at ease than knowing how close he was, even through those layers of plate and leather.

He was looking at her with his beautiful eyes, dark in the mediocre candlelight. It was warm and close and immediate, and she couldn’t fathom how she could ever want to be this close to a _Templar_. She was staring right back up at him, and her knees almost went out from under her, she was so _afraid_ of doing anything that could tell him how much she cared or how much she just wanted to _kiss him_.

She grabbed her glass and finished it, ignoring the scar tissue she could feel forming immediately after it finished burning her throat. It was hard just being around him then, trying to press how she felt down and out of sight. Her skin practically burned with the want to just hold his face or grasp at his hands, but she was too new to this. Along with the crippling fear that maybe he didn’t feel the same way about her, it was enough to force her back into her own room, leaving him with just a stuttered goodbye and the need to sleep.

It was hard sleeping that night, half-formed sickly green dreams swirled into angry demons and had her waking nearly every hour. When she woke up for the last time, she tried to attack the pile of papers, and did for a few hours before she gave in and went to see Dagna. Harritt stopped the Inquisitor before she could interrupt, and both shared a look before she left to go see Josephine.

The Ambassador always seemed composed, but after the prolonged absence of not only the Inquisitor, but the Commander as well, and on top of an assassination plot on her life, she was less collected than usual.

“Josie, you need to calm down,” Clara said as she leaned against the support beam in the office.

Josephine was behind her desk, head cradled in one hand as she frantically considered judges to elevate the DuParaquettes. “Inquisitor, I am _fine_. I just… need a vacation.” she said with a sigh.

“You know, usually I’m the one deflecting,” Clara pointed out as she went to stand in front of the desk. “Taking a day off isn’t going to kill you.”

“A day off would imply that I have time to waste.” She groaned and shuffled papers around, looking at a list of Orlesian judges indebted to the Inquisition. It was a surprisingly long list.

“Josie, you were pulling double time while we were gone. Go do something else, ask Vivienne for something to calm you down. Or tea. I could have something soothing and not wholly unpleasant sent to you.”

“Inquisitor, the gesture is lovely, really--”

“That’s an _order_ , Josephine.”

She looked at the Inquisitor with an eyebrow raised. “You’re ordering me to relax.”

Clara shrugged, turning to leave the office. “I’ll have them bring you tea. I understand chamomile is very soothing.”

The Inquisitor moved to the kitchens where she instructed a pot be brought to Josephine’s office, along with the lunch she had seemingly forgone. After, she went to Dorian and retrieved that Nevarran romance and asked a page to bring it to her as well. Clara hoped Josephine would get a kick out of the book, if anything. It had been good to read, after all; not as a romance novel, but more as a loose string of terrible metaphors and improbable sex positions.

“Are you trying to poison the mind of our ambassador?” Dorian asked with a smirk as the page left with the book.

“Of all of the things you’ve accused me of, _that_ has got to be most laughable,” she replied easily, stretching. She wandered over to the bookcase and selected something small, a recounting of the history of Ferelden. It was one of many volumes, this one in particular accounting all of the Alamarri tribes that eventually banded together and formed the country.

“Why are you subjecting her to that book, then?”

Clara shrugged. “I shouldn’t be the only person to fall victim to it. Josephine seems like a fine candidate, and she needs to relax.”

“Relax with _that?_ ” He scoffed and looked over at the book she was holding. “A Ferelden history book? If you’re having trouble falling asleep, I could give you a potion or something.”

“Don’t be an ass Dorian. I happen to be interested in Ferelden history.” She opened the book and looked at the table of contents.

“I know, I just never saw the appeal myself.” He leaned up against the bookshelf in front of her, blocking her vision and light. “Are you going to ignore me in favor of the Commander for another night, or are we going to pick up our _lively_ discussion on the different schools of magic?”

Clara shut the book and sighed. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were jealous I was spending time with another man.”

“Should I be jealous?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. The wicked smile was on his face and she hated him for it. She blushed deeply and batted him with the book.

“I’m friends with him,” she snapped, as if saying it enough would make her believe it. She swatted him with the book again, not hard enough to hurt, but he started rubbing the spot anyway.

“I believe you!” he laughed. “Maker, you’re touchy about it. Are you sure he’s _your_ friend?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you, Dorian,” she huffed, turning away from him.

“Have a different one with me then. Perhaps something we’re _both_ interested in.” He poked her gently on the shoulder. This was all a game to him, he was _playing_ with her and he made it sound like he was having so much fun.

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Are you really upset I’m not spending so much time with you?”

“Truthfully? I’m not sure, but Solas makes for _extremely_ dry conversation. Especially when trying to discuss something other than the Fade.”

“You’ve been using Solas as a substitute, is that it?” A smile began tugging at her lips and she tried to force it away. He couldn’t know he’d already won.

“It was either him or Dagna, and she’s… very passionate, I’ll give her that. And Vivienne is wonderful to speak with, truly, but she’s not too keen on research.”

“What about Helisma?” she prodded, though she was already thinking of seeing him after she cleared another stack of papers from her desk.

“You’re joking.” He gave her a withering look and she let herself smile at him. She’d been doing so much of that lately.

“Fine, I’ll see you after I finish more paperwork. Send someone to get me for dinner, and I’ll come after that.” She squeezed his forearm and gave it a reassuring pat before she turned to go back to her room.

That night, she told him what happened at the shrine. He was particularly fascinated by Maddox’s salvaged tools, and pulled down a truly massive tome on the subject of Tranquility and their abilities. So they spent the rest of that night, and most of the next day discussing that before she broke and left him to see the Commander. Dorian whined like a petulant child at her leaving him again, but it was half-hearted.

Cullen’s room was warm, the air distinctly snug. He was behind his desk, half-out of his armor and writing furiously.

“I can come back later,” she offered when he didn’t notice her enter.

His head snapped up and a wide smile broke out before he composed himself and looked back down. He finished what he was writing and put it aside to dry before asking her how she was doing.

“I’m fine,” she said, leaning on his desk in the usual spot, small book on Ferelden folklore clutched in her hand. She peered at his papers. “What were you doing?”

“Writing to my sister,” he replied, standing and shuffling her away from her desk.

“Your sister Mia?” Sudden flashes of a woman with a mass of curly blonde hair and golden eyes flew through her head.

“Yes, she’s after me to write longer letters to her.” Cullen gestured to the small loveseat and they both took a seat. “I was hoping you’d come by, actually.”

A blush began to creep up the back of her neck and she rubbed at it anxiously. “Really? Is there a reason?”

“I found something I thought you might like.” He got up off the couch and went to his bookshelf, pulled down a squat book, and returned to her. He handed it over, smile bright on his face.

She took it and looked at the cover. It had Circle heraldry on the front, gold against the fading black background. _“Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry,”_ she read off. “A book about magic?”

He nodded, bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck. She noticed he had shaved recently, travel beard gone. “A book seller arrived yesterday to deliver an order, and I looked through his stocks and I figured you would like this.”

 _Because I’m a mage._ “Why?”

His face grew worried, eyes widening as he leaned back and looked at the rafters. “You talk about magic a lot, and I just _thought_ you’d find it… interesting.”

She let out a breath and flipped through the pages. It was obviously an old book, one the vendor was probably a few days away from throwing in as a gift for his next order. It was worn and such a sweet gesture, she bit the inside of her cheek for how suspicious she was. “It’s… a very nice thought. Thank you, Cullen.” She swallowed down the urge to cry or throw up, she had trouble telling the difference between the knot in her throat and the clenching in her stomach.

“Are you sure you like it?” he asked, concerned. “You look ill, Inquisitor.”

“I love it,” she said thickly. “I haven’t gotten a present in years.”

“Well, it was--I was just--Maker’s breath, you’re _welcome_ ,” he forced out, blushing furiously as she looked up at him.

She leaned forward and hugged him, quick and tight, then let him go before she burst into flames. Her face was burning and her hands were shaking and she was almost positive she had read pieces of this book before back at the Circle but she didn’t _care_. He listened to what she said and paid attention when she rambled on and distracted him from his work. It was a gift, no matter how small it may have been. From how measured everything Cullen did was, she was willing to bet he’d agonized over buying it and whether or not he was going to give it to her and that just made it _sweeter_. _He_ was sweet, so honest and human, she wanted nothing more right then than to just hug him again and never let go.

“This is so sweet, I really--I really mean it. Thank you,” she said again, hoping he didn’t hear the lump in her voice.

He rubbed soothing circles into her back, hand warm and firm through her shirt and she was sure he was trying to kill her. It was unreal, _how_ could he have been a Templar? They were all cold and in love with duty, their shining plate and embossed swords of mercy heavy on their chests. Just like Adelise had always been, just like the Knight-Commander at Ostwick was, just like those Templars her father had always had over for dinner.

“You’re welcome, again. Inquisitor, are you alright?” he asked worried and beautiful. Lovely concern was on his face and it broke her heart to know it was for her.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, composing herself. “I just… _really_ love books.”

He accepted it, though she knew he didn’t really believe it was her love of the printed word that almost had her in tears. It was that he was thinking of her enough to see something and think she would like it. It was a small confirmation that he thought of her as much as she did him. Maybe he thought about her hands and counting her freckles the same way she could still feel his fingers on her and the scratch of his beard when he hugged her. It was terrifying to think of, that someone could care for her as much as she cared for them.

Cullen went back to signing paperwork and writing letters while she read the book he had given her. Reading to a certain point she was _positive_ she'd read parts of it before, but she didn’t care. It was interesting to read and wonder what he had seen in it that tipped the scale in favor of getting it for her.

Not long after he had given it to her, perhaps only an hour or so, excited chattering and fervent knocking resounded on the door connecting his room to the main hall. He opened the door, face perplexed until he looked down and saw Dagna.

She came in babbling quickly about runes and counter-enchantments, wielding a large red piece of carved glass. Apparently she had done the impossible and managed to get some use out of those melted tools they had recovered. She handed Cullen the rune, eyes bright and excited as she explained what it would do to Samson. Weaken his armor, make him more susceptible to damage, disrupt the enchantments he had on, really just ruin his day.

He took it and thanked her, and she left, happy she had done good work.

“She’s certainly dedicated,” Clara murmured as the dwarf walked proudly across the walkway.

“I’m just glad she didn’t blow up Skyhold,” he replied, placing the rune in his desk. He straightened up with a sigh. “I really hope this works.”

“Of course it would, why wouldn’t it?” Clara said immediately.

He shrugged and paced to where she was standing. “Things have a remarkable way of going like that for me.”

“Well it won’t,” she replied stubbornly.

“I believe you,” he said with a soft smile as he looked at her.

“Good.” She felt herself leaning closer to him, drawn in by how warm he was. Genuine. Someone she could trust. Golden like the sun, even brighter at night than he was during the day. She was close to him, too close, and she could feel herself ready to just press her lips to his when Cullen said her name.

Her _name_.

“Clara?” he asked again, concern heavy in his voice.

She blinked, her name so foreign to hear from him that it startled her out of what she had been about to do. “Cullen?”

“You look like you’re about to fall over.”

She took in her current stance, the way her body was leaning dangerously towards him, practically pressed against his chest. “Yes--ah,” she stuttered out anxiously, feet itching and gut roiling. “I should, I’m very tired.”

His face softened. “You should go to sleep.”

“I should,” she acknowledged, still imagining the way his mouth would give under hers. “You… thank you again for the book.”

“You’re welcome, Clara. Now go to sleep before Cassandra yells at me for keeping you up.”

She turned to leave, her name ringing around her head in his voice when she registered what he had said. “I’m going to Caer Oswin tomorrow,” she said quickly. “To look for the missing Seekers with Cassandra.”

He nodded, eyes taking on that same look they did every time she left. Her heart skipped a beat to see it there, but she whispered goodnight and ran back to her room, berating herself both for feeling the way she did and not just having the nerve to _kiss_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a stupidly long time, I'm sorry. As always, please tell me how it went!


	8. Je rêve de vos yeux nuit et jour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara squeezed his fingers tightly, each small imperfection in his hands pressed against her. She wanted to just _say_ it, spit it out already. She dreamed of him, it was almost impossible to face when she woke up because his imagined hands on her were still so sharp. His eyes were beautiful, a gorgeous golden Ferelden brown. She adored the way his lips curled up when he smiled, how his whole face lit up. His voice was lovely, she needed to hear him say her name every way he knew how. _Maker_ , she needed him to _know_.

She woke up early the next morning and prepared herself for the journey. Her mind flipped anxiously through every touch and word Cullen had shared with her, her face burning brightly as she shrugged into her armor. She hesitated momentarily as she packed, eventually stuffing Vivienne’s bottle and Cullen’s book into her sack and lacing it up before she could get over her sentimentality and leave the book. She didn’t see Cullen before leaving, completely sure she wouldn’t survive the encounter.

Before she could leave for Caer Oswin, Mother Giselle stopped her and gave her a letter Dorian’s father sent. It was written in long, spidery handwriting, and Clara almost ripped it in half when the Mother asked her to do as his father asked and bring him. She wasn’t going to lie to him and she wasn’t going risk her relationship with him. He had made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with his father anymore, and she respected him.

However, she still found herself telling him about the letter. To her surprise, he wanted to go, if not to see how far his father was willing to go to get him back, than to just see what poor soul had been tasked with dragging him all the way to Tevinter. So she took him, Cassandra, and Cole to Caer Oswin to find the missing Seekers.

It was a far-flung place, old and misty and beautiful, two weeks out of their way. The mountain it was on was so high up the clouds hung heavy and close, the air thick with fog. The old and somewhat crumbling holdfast looked to be leaning askew, as if pulling out a keystone would take the entire building down in a moment. Vines sprouted out between the stones and curled away into massive bushes.

Cole let out a muffled noise of excitement at seeing the broken fortress, Clara’s heart swelling when she heard it. He was so sweet, she hadn’t realized how much she had missed taking him with her. His soft sad voice and gangly limbs and whispered reaffirmations that they were doing _good,_ the Inquisition was _good,_ she wasn’t the wretch she used to be.

Through the crumbling dungeon and courtyard, all four of them were almost positive of the fate the Seekers had met, though no one said anything. Cassandra was calm, but there was anger right there under her skin. It punched through when she read the letter they scavenged off of a corpse, cracked her all the more when she took mercy on Daniel, broke through as she killed the Lord Seeker.

Though, if truth be told, her anger looked more like sadness.

That night at camp she remained in her tent, the book Lucius had given her following her in. Cole tried to help, but this was something he couldn’t make her forget. She wasn’t holding onto something she could just put down with the right words. It was deeper, that faith rooted right in her bones. This was something bigger than a hurt to fix; it was the weight of the Divine and Daniel and Haven pressing down on her as she fought to stand like the iron she was.

Cassandra didn’t talk much, even as they got into the Hinterlands and hunted the Venatori mages. Dorian was only too pleased to end his fellow countrymen on the end of his stave. They got a lot done as they hiked over the hills. A new horse master, blankets, food for the refugees, and each accompanied by Cole’s sweet voice, happy that they had helped someone else.

Then they reached Redcliffe. If Clara tried hard enough, she could still see the spires of red lyrium and the Breach pulsing sickly green as it devoured the sky. The people around them were completely unaware of the fate that had befallen them, then fixed so quickly.

Inside the tavern, it was dark and stank like the basements of the Circle had. Then again, the entire place _had_ been a basement, but the lower levels were still worse. Just like Redcliffe’s tavern it was stale and musty and the faint odor of vomit hung in the air. Which only added to the strangeness of the situation when Dorian’s father emerged from the stairs.

Oh, she hated him _immediately_. He was tall and lanky with a broad, sad face. As he and his son argued and what he had _done_ exposed itself, she was seized by the old want to do something terrible to him. Nothing in particular jumped to mind, but the need to get control of the situation and protect her friend was strong and immediate. She felt powerless, just like she had in the Circle and on the floor of the prison at the Conclave blast site and lying face down in the snow at Haven.

Dorian turned to leave, and she stopped him, suddenly sure that none of them would be happy with the way this was ending. “Talk to him,” she said softly, hand firm and steady on his shoulder because she needed Dorian to get closure. _Talk to him_ , because maybe all bridges weren’t worth burning. _Talk to him_ , because while some things couldn’t be forgiven, hate wasn’t the best option anymore. Her head ached with that realisation as he turned to speak with his father again, and she waited outside to give them privacy.

Cole sat quietly by her, fingers drumming rhythmically as he nodded to a song only he could hear. She combed her fingers through the grass she could reach, gently tugging on it until some came up. She fiddled with it between her fingers, feeling completely like a child at her estate’s garden all over again. A sigh pulled itself from her as she considered Dorian and his father. Hate had always been something she held closely to her heart, she understood it, could understand why Dorian felt that way too. It was a strong emotion, something she could grasp at easily when everything else became too much. Demons had taken quick note of that as she grew and even that base comfort had been taken. Petty hate for Adelise for leaving, at Jules for not waking up faster, at the uncles she had never met for just being mages, she cultivated it so _easily_. Then the not-so-petty hatred for the Templars who killed her brother and the one that had stalked her all those days and nights at the Circle, certain there was a demon at work in her, _no one_ could be that distant without cracking and falling prey to rage, despair, _pride._

“It’s not your fault,” Cole murmured from her left.

“I _know_ ,” she groaned, cradling her head in her hands. A headache was beginning to form in the back of her skull as her fingers massaged over her scar.

“Tall hallways with heavy doors, chattering mice and spiders are always scuttling along but _what was that sound?_ ” he continued.

“I should have been in bed,” she murmured. “But she still would have found me another night.”

Long, bony fingers soothed over her knee. His hand was warm, surprising considering Clara wasn’t even completely sure how he had fingers to begin with. “It’s _not your_ _fault_.”

“Knowing that doesn’t make it better,” she said softly, covering his hand with her own. “I don’t want to forget it, though. I need to remember.”

He nodded his head and went back to drumming his fingers. Long shadows were cast down his face, floppy hat keeping him deathly pale. He was so _sweet_ it almost hurt her to think about. Soft and sad and yet she had witnessed him viciously rip apart a Venatori mage earlier that day. She wondered briefly if he could feel when the people they killed were in pain. A shiver ran down her spine as all the ways her enemies had met their ends flashed through her head, and she decided not to dwell on it.

Dorian emerged and notably didn’t want to talk about it. Clara couldn’t say she didn’t really blame him, but his and Cassandra’s combined silence made for a very taciturn five days of riding back to Skyhold, along with Cole fretting about as he listened to them. She ended up surprising herself with how much tolerance for despairing silence she had. A year ago she would have relished in the quiet; now, it was almost deafening.

At Skyhold, she passed out immediately in her room and woke at noon the next day. She summoned a war council after bathing and discussed troop movements throughout the Hinterlands and up into Lake Calenhad and Highever. She could feel Cullen’s eyes on her during the meeting, heavy and questioning. Shame welled up at not saying goodbye and spread over her, making her hands shake and sweat. That was all she ever seemed to be around him: nervous, cut intermittently by blissful conversations with him.

Clara made the mistake of looking up to meet his gaze as he read out a report to her and banged her shin on part of the table. Convincing everyone that she was alright was difficult to do when she was sweating and looked like she was about to vomit, but she managed. The rest of the meeting passed without consequence, Clara burning quietly in silence.

She dismissed the meeting and braced herself against the table as she waited for her advisors to file out. The map should be reorganized, she needed to label the tokens and come up with a plan of action for Halamshiral. There was also the Marquis of Serault and his ridiculous gifts that needed to be responded too, though Josephine had said she would handle that. However, he had indicated that he would like an audience with the Inquisitor--

“Do you have a moment?” Cullen asked quietly behind her.

She jumped, nearly scared out of her skin. “What do you need?” she asked stiffly, turning to face him.

Maker’s _breath_ , it wasn’t fair how much she noticed about him. His hands were gripping at his sword and the smudges under his eyes were a dark purple. His stubble had grown out of hand and was one bad day away from a beard and she _knew_. All those hours arguing about lyrium with Dorian and pouring over those near-useless books for anything about what he was going through and she knew what he wasn’t telling her. Her chest ached with it, how his hands gripped at his sword for something to ground him and hide the tremors, how he went unshaved because of the shaking. He didn’t have to tell her: she _knew_.

“I was wondering if you were alright.” He squinted at her, coming closer, cloud of armor polish and lyrium and sweat following him. She backed up into the table, banging into it noisily.

“I’m fine,” she ground out, head screaming that she shouldn’t be this worked up. “Do you need anything else?”

He looked at her sideways for a moment before exhaling hastily. “No. I suppose not. You know where to find me, Inquisitor.”

Cullen walked out and her title was like a spear in the gut. He had said her _name_ before, after months of not. He’d said it perhaps only twice, but it was the loveliest thing she’d ever heard, coming from him. Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, that was what she was now, all anyone ever saw her as. For even a moment, he had called her _Clara_. She wanted nothing more than to kiss him just for that alone. She stood there swaying and imagining what his lips would feel like against hers, if his scar would feel different, if his beard would scratch at her face, would his hands hold her when they kissed or would he need to brace himself on something? In each fevered vision she had it was different. Some were soft and easy, gentle presses and breathy sighs, his hands smoothed over her hips while she held his face. Others were harder, making her gut clench almost painfully. His broad hands on her thighs, chest, pressing her into him as she desperately grabbed at his coat.

Clara pushed away from the table, legs shaking as she tried to just forget about it. She slogged through Josephine’s office, her ambassador stopping her to hand her the Nevarran romance and express proper disgust with it. The Inquisitor’s mood lightened as Josephine discussed it with her, falling easily into this simple distraction she needed. Apparently the ambassador had read worse books in her time, though this one in particular had a few choice phrases that stood out to her. “Mastering her taint,” “lust and thrust,” and “the bleating cacophony of their lovemaking” were three that really had Josephine questioning the ability of the author to form proper metaphor. Then she sent Clara on her way with the wish to get it as far from her as possible.

She wandered out of the building and into the training yard. Grasped by the sudden desire to see Cassandra, she searched around the practice dummy she was usually destroying. The Seeker proved harder to find, and only when Clara went searching in the upstairs apartment Cassandra was only ever in when it rained, she found her sitting at her table, large book in front of her.

It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the Seekers knew how to reverse the Rite of Tranquility, but Clara’s anger still reared up whip fast. How could this be kept from the public, it caused more problems than it fixed, it was _wrong_.

Cassandra bore it like a wall, waiting for the blizzard of rage to subside and Clara be available to speak with. A crisis of faith was shaking her. The rug of what she knew had been pulled out from under her, leaving her unwavering devotion with nothing to stand on. She was like a toppled statue or a collapsed suit of armor; should she pick it all up and lead, or melt it down and try again?

Ultimately, they both agreed that she was still a Seeker. It wasn’t worth tossing out everything she was when she could make it better. She was willing to fix mistakes and rebuild. Cassandra seemed relieve when Clara told her that, like it was what she wanted to hear but was too afraid to tell herself. Cassandra wasn’t nearly as hard as Clara had thought she was when she first met her in that dungeon at the valley. She was determined and pragmatic, called Clara her _friend_.

The Inquisitor wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, but Cassandra seemed to understand that Clara felt the same way too from how her face softened. She quickly squeezed her shoulder, a show that they weren’t just the Inquisitor and the Seeker anymore. They were Cassandra and Clara, friends they hadn’t expected to make.

As Clara turned to leave, the need for a nap being all that she could focus on, Cassandra asked her to stop and see Dorian. He had apparently gone searching for the Inquisitor earlier. So Clara forewent her nap and found him in the library.

He was staring out the window over the mountains, and for perhaps the first time since she’d met him, he didn’t have anything witty to greet her with. He just sighed and turned towards her, upsetting the dust moats.

 _We’re too much alike,_ that’s what his father had said. She supposed it could be true; they were both Tevinter mages who had ruined their relationship with the other. But as he talked about it, it was bigger than just that. It was that want for acceptance and doing what they thought was best. Though Clara was inclined to agree more with Dorian and less with the magister. The fact that he was willing to risk his son with _blood magic_ so he could fit what everyone wanted him to be proved that Dorian’s integrity was greater.

He called her friend too, and the face he made, the need to convey to her that she was his _only_ friend, it was like looking in a mirror. It figured they’d find solidarity together, really. They’d both changed since that first meeting in the Redcliffe tavern. She wasn’t mean, wasn’t the mage who had nearly driven her staff right through Alexius. He wasn’t as cocksure as she had always thought; he was a _person_ and even with all of his jokes and pomp, it was just armor and when it was peeled off at the end of the day, he was a friendless mage in a foreign country that hated him.

He was perhaps her closest friend. Him, Cassandra, Solas, Blackwall, her whole inner circle, they were there with her to the end. A year ago, she didn’t have friends. Now she found herself with more than she could have imagined. It was… overwhelming, to say the least.

She remained in the library, just quietly reading with him. It was what they both needed, something peaceful and _normal_ and silent. The book she chose was strange, not normally something she would attempt. It was just a romance, Orlesian this time. The translation was mediocre, but it was charming enough. Dorian _almost_ commented on it, but seemed to think better it of when the look Clara gave him implied his life relied on the next words out of his mouth. He thankfully shut up and let her enjoy her trashy romance in peace.

They broke when dinner was assembled. Her gut clenched at the prospect of seeing Cullen again after being so awkward in the war room. It was a distinct and irrational fear that he would ignore her or shame her in front of her companions. Rationally, she knew he would never do that, he was too kind, sweet, honest, but rationale abandoned her whenever he was around.

Which is why she immediately noticed when he didn’t show. Missing meals had never been uncommon for him or her, but it was a let down that he wasn’t there. Her mix of relief and disappointment that she didn’t have to face him was chased by an obsessiveness to know _why_. If she was being rational, she would have assumed he was too caught up with working or maybe he had fallen asleep or he was just doing _something else_. But she couldn’t think clearly where he was involved, so when dinner ended, she rejected Dorian’s offer to continue in the library in favor of going to her quarters to get what she was going to say the Commander straight.

In her chambers, she found quite the underwhelming pile of paperwork. It was smaller than usual, nearly half the size of the usual load that awaited her, no doubt mostly comprised of innane   gift letters and apologies. Electing to deal with it later, Clara sat down on her bed. Sitting quickly turned to laying which in turn became her imagining every possible thing she could say to Cullen that could properly convey just how _much_ she needed him.

It was borderline obscene how much he occupied her thoughts. She couldn’t look at anything without being reminded of him, it was _ridiculous_. She felt like an apprentice with a crush all over again, seventeen and infatuated with a _Templar_. It was completely horrible, she was always blushing and her hands were sweaty. All of her good dreams were about him and when she woke her chest _ached_ because it hadn’t been real. Everything about how he made her feel was terrible and she _loved_ it.

His hands, his eyes, his lips, everything about him from his feet to his stupid curly hair, she thought about him all the time. It had been years since she’d kissed someone, let alone done anything else, but was she willing. It was nearly impossible to focus on anything else when he was in the room, and even when he wasn’t she would catch herself remembering the way his hands had held hers. He was so _warm_ and honest it killed her, she didn’t understand how he had made it this far. He was the Commander but when he held her hands in his huge ones, he was just Cullen with the soft golden brown eyes who stammered because he was afraid of what he might say around her.

Clara groaned and rolled over, ache in her gut growing as she made eye contact with the book he had given her. It was painful, actually _painful_ , the way she just wanted to lean on him and have him wrap his arms around her. Maker’s _breath,_ she felt ridiculous, pining after him the way she was. They were friends, she was positive of that, but she couldn’t help the want to be more.

She fell asleep laying on the blankets of her bed. Her dreams were all borderline feverish, broad hands running over her hips as his mouth trailed down her neck. Her hands knotted in his hair as she peppered kisses along his stubble. Strong, gentle fingers that he quietly trailed over her scar. Him paying attention to each of her freckles, light kisses feathered over every one of them. Just lying there while she ran her fingers through his hair. Every touch was so _exact_ that even when she woke up, she could still feel his lips on her.

Clara groaned as she stared out the window in her room. The moon was high up in the sky, a huge, glowing circle. She got out of bed, stiff and achy, trying to rub the imagined feeling of his lips from her neck. Her feet dragged her across the room to the armoire, wide awake and nearly miserable. She undressed slowly, flexing the pain from her arms and legs, then wrapped a thick robe around herself. The balcony was cold when she stepped onto it, a light dusting of frost beginning to build on the railing. The mountain wind whistled shrilly and she went back inside her room, too tired to stand there and get blasted but too awake to go back to sleep.

She wandered down the stairs and into the main hall, passing into Solas’ study as she shuffled to the battlements, nodding to a few of the night patrol as she met them. A walk would tire her out and then she would take that potion Vivienne made so she would just _stop_ dreaming about him. Then she could think and do her job and pull herself out of this pit she had seemed to have fallen into.

The battlements were cold enough to feel through her sandals, the same light dusting of snow that had been on her balcony swirling with each slight gust of wind. She strolled down the length of the walkway until she came close to Cullen’s door and she cursed herself for even thinking this was a remotely good idea. About to turn around, she spotted someone _not_ in a shiny helmet walking along the battlements across from her. Blond curly hair caught her eyes and she opened the door to his office without thinking, going through both doors until she was on the other side.

Cullen was just standing there looking over the side of the balustrade at the mountains. Clara rolled her lips into her mouth, chewing on them nervously. She felt like a peeping tom just staring at him like she was, but it just wasn’t _fair_ that he was there. He cut a striking figure against the moonlight, hair almost silver as she watched him. That hollow ache in her gut was back, the want to just hold him almost overtaking her.

A stiff breeze blew around behind her, pushing her hair in front of her face. She pushed it out of the way, spitting the stray strands out of her mouth. Cullen turned towards her, evidently surprised to find her there. Still, he brought a hand up to wave at her. She was torn between being relieved he had noticed her and the crippling anxiety that crashed down on her.

Still, she walked over and stood next to him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked quietly, breaking the silence.

His lips quirked up as he looked down at her from the corner of his eye. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“We’re all busy,” she murmured, looking down at her feet. A few moments passed with only the wind for sound as he stared at the mountains. He was so warm next to her, she was so tempted to just reach out and _touch_ him. Her dreams came back to her and she flushed from her toes to the roots of her hair. They had only been kisses and touches, but it felt so obscene just to even think about when he was near. She hastily pushed hair in front of her face so he couldn’t see how hard she was blushing, hand covering her scar.

“I--I wanted to apologize,” she said quickly before she could think better of it. “In the war room, I shouldn’t have been so surly.”

“Are you alright?” he asked instead of saying _You didn’t see me before you left._

He was turned towards her now. He looked concerned in the moonlight, a few flakes of ice glittering in his hair. She was peeking at him through the tresses in front of her face, still far too warm. “I didn’t want you to think that I was… _ungrateful_ or something. I didn’t mean to act like that.”

He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. It had come out of its carefully combed style, tight curls falling limply over his head. “It’s fine, Inquisitor. You’ve just seemed… _ill_ all day. Did you pick anything up in the Hinterlands?”

“No, I’m alright, Cullen.”

“You would tell us if something was wrong? I-- _we_ are worried about you,” he said, pink blush spreading on his face. He was so delightfully awkward, all stammering and hands.

She pushed her hair out of the way. “Yes. And I’m telling you now, I just needed to apologize. I’m just--I’m just _worried_. I’ve never had real friends, just my siblings, and I’m not so good at dealing with how I feel.” She peered up at him and sighed at his confused expression. “And here I go, babbling like an idiot.”

“No!” he said hastily, hands hovering over her, unsure of whether or not he should put them on her. _Maker_ , how she would love his hands on her, but she pushed it out of her head, instead trying to focus on what he was saying. “No, you don’t sound like an idiot. We’re _friends_ , Clara, you don’t have to be so worried about offending me--”

He cut himself off, blushing furiously as she grabbed one of his hands. It was so much larger than hers, his fingers thick and blunt where her’s were long and thin. They were lovely hands, hard from use and years spent in service to others. Now he was here, his life written in the crisscrossing scars and faded accidents. She wanted to press her lips to each one, show him just how _much_ she adored his hands, his mouth, his eyes, _everything_ about him.

“Thank you,” she said softly. He brought his other hand up to hold hers, large and warm on her cold fingers. She needed that validation that they were at least friends. Though, she was almost positive friends shouldn’t occupy thoughts like he did.

Clara squeezed his fingers tightly, each small imperfection in his hands pressed against her. She wanted to just _say_ it, spit it out already. She dreamed of him, it was almost impossible to face when she woke up because his imagined hands on her were still so sharp. His eyes were beautiful, a gorgeous golden Ferelden brown. She adored the way his lips curled when he smiled, how his whole face lit up. His voice was lovely, she needed to hear him say her name every way he knew how; it would sound so _intimate_ coming from him. _Maker_ , she needed him to _know_.

“You haven’t shaved in a while,” she said in place of _I notice when you’ve had a bad week._

“I haven’t had the time,” he murmured, eyes dark in the low light.

“Are you sleeping?”

His eyes moved across her face, meeting her eyes after he’d slid over every feature. “I’m out here, aren’t I?” he replied lightly.

 _Oh_ , how she wanted to put her hands on his face, trace her thumbs over his lips. She could show him with her hands that he didn’t need to keep it bottled up, he could talk to her about it, she was _here_. “You missed dinner as well,” she observed. Three things she shouldn’t have seen, but she did. Things he didn’t seem to know she'd seen. Things she wanted to shoulder with him, exchange those hurts so they didn’t seem so large anymore.

He didn’t reply, just closed his eyes as he held her hands. Her arms wanted to be around him, feel how hot he was under his shirt, all tough soldier with skin like a roadmap. Would he have freckles like she did? Was the hair on his body as light as the hair on his head or as dark as his beard? Her dreams had left those parts out, hazy spots built around his sweet face and bold hands. Would he be firm or soft with her, would he know what to do? It was hard picturing him with anyone else, but she still could. Something told her he’d know exactly what to do, the thought sending shivers down her spine.

“Are you cold?” he asked quietly, eyes opening.

Her mouth twitched up into a smile, blush spreading further. “I’m never cold.”

“Your hands are freezing.” As if to emphasize his point his hands started rubbing over hers.

“They always are,” she said softly. He didn’t even know how flushed she was around him, the way her blush spread from her face to her chest whenever he was near.

A breeze came by again, her hair whipping in front of her face. She forced herself to take her hands out of his, but he let go willingly, bringing his own hands up to push her hair away. She was going to die right there on the spot. That, or just pull him down and do what she’d been _fantasizing_ about for so long. She could kiss him until she died, live off of the noises he’d make. In her head he always whispered her name between each kiss, slowly and delicately.

She swallowed it down and grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands away from her face. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t, he just stood there gauging her. There was fear in his eyes, apprehension chased with _something_.

“You’re going to get sick if you stay out here any longer,” she said instead of _Kiss me_. “You need to sleep.” _Just hold me._

He exhaled and swallowed, straightening up as she released his hands. They were so close together, she could almost press herself against him. If she did, would he pull away? Would that old Templar duty come crashing down between them, a shield between their bodies? Would he kiss her-- _could_ he kiss her? She was still a mage, they’d killed dozens of each other before and she didn't want it to  _matter_ anymore.

Still though, even as she thought it, _Templar_ didn’t seem to ring as loudly as it had before. There wasn’t that burning Sword of Mercy on his chest between them. She could feel how warm he was instead of cold plate and mail. He was here and immediate and this wasn’t friendship anymore, not to her, but she wasn’t going to jeopardize what she already had. There were threats still lurking, she couldn’t _afford--_

“I’ll speak with you tomorrow,” he said softly, eyes warm and beautiful. His voice was sedate and intimate, close and washing over her.

Clara nodded, throat dry. She saw him back to his room, surprising herself as she hugged him tightly in front of his ladder. Another whispered apology slipped out, everything unsaid behind her words. She _needed_ him to know how she felt, how she had to stop herself from throwing herself at him every time she returned. How much she respected him, how much he meant to her. Not just for how his hands felt on her but for how she loved talking to him, he made everything _easier_. That lyrium cloud about him had taken on a whole new meaning. It wasn’t the imposing threat of doom at the Circle, it was _him_. He’d changed what made her afraid, something she wanted desperately to do for him as well. He didn’t have to be alone with his shaking and nightmares, she could _help_.

She went to bed after he had climbed up the ladder to his bed, her own room so large and empty without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one isn't as long as the others, it's more of a gap filler bertween chapters but I really feel like I got some good emtional shit down here. Some solid burning on the characters' parts. Also, I noticed the site was double spacing all the paragraphs so I fixed that and it reads a _lot_ better bow, I think. So thanks for sticking with me and as always please remember to tell me what you think in a comment or [tumblr](http://mythalmythos.tumblr.com) message, you can reach me any way.


	9. Tu es dans toutes mes pensées

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was maddening though, when she spent time with him. There was constant contact and little said. Their legs, a hand, arms, a limb casually draped, they had to be _touching_ each other at all times. It was enough to almost make her explode, every fevered kiss and touch from her dreams making her ache with the want for him to know how she felt. It made for relaxing days of travel and long nights where she lied awake thinking of him. On the fifth day, she only saw him for a bit before he retired early, eyes distant. It added a layer of fear to her, breaking the peaceful return. She wondered if it was her but she had managed to convince herself that he was _honest_ enough to be frank with her if she had done something. It was the lyrium, she deduced. Whenever he fell distant it was always the lyrium, a knot in his skull or spikes in his joints, a fog in his head.

Things were different between her and the Commander after that night on the battlements. There was something else there when they spoke, a heaviness when their eyes met. She chewed on her lips whenever he was around, her hands always occupying themselves fiddling with her clothing or her hair. She noticed the pinkness in his cheeks whenever they spoke, and as she watched him over the war table the next morning, he was cleanshaven with a flushed face.

It was murder whenever she glanced up and met his gaze, the both of them hastily looking away. It was embarrassing, her head hurt, her chest ached, it was terrible and fantastic. She loved everything he did to her, the way he spoke and carried himself, how he looked at her, the way his mouth moved when he saw her. His warm little room in the tower was wonderful. It a close comfort, his own lyrium and armor polish smell an even _closer_ comfort.

She saw him almost every night, just working or reading with him in the room. She picked his bookshelf apart, impressed by the sheer number of almanacs and compendiums he possessed. Books on riding, blacksmithing, farming, books of receipts, _anything_ that instructed. History books cluttered the shelves as well. A few copies of the books were in the library as well. The history of magic, Templars, Ferelden, the Free Marches were there, each represented by a thick tome with an embossed cover.

It went on for a week and a half, 10 days that were easy. It was hard going to sleep, leaving that warm room for her cavernous quarters, but her dreams were less about twisting green demons and failures, and more about _him_. Combing her fingers through his hair, holding each other as they pressed together, searching hands and reassuring kisses. It was even harder waking up and dealing with the fact that they had just been dreams. It was difficult to deal with, but she _needed_ to keep being around him, so the dreams stayed.

Then, after those 10 days, they had to set out for Halamshiral. The trip took five days of listening to Josephine go into a near-manic state at the prospect of setting the Inquisition loose on a palace full of Orlesian nobles. Having Vivienne along was little comfort, though she knew her way around the Game. Cassandra and Cole both proved to be difficult, albeit in different ways. The Seeker was fed up with the Orlesian court from the moment Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne attempted to show her proper dancing and prepare her for speaking with the nobles. Cole was simply… confused, as he often was. It was little comfort to the advisors knowing he wouldn’t make a scene simply because no one would remember him.

And then they arrived and it was a _sight_. Massive and lovely, it reminded her of her family’s estate, right down the ornate gowns her mother and visiting family used to wear. She thanked the Maker for small blessings that she didn’t have to suffer one of the dresses. Self-conscious about how short her torso was since a child, the draping formal uniform and high boots made her look less like a spider with gangly legs and more like a leader. It also had the added benefit of not being at risk of killing her if she stepped the wrong way.

Oh, the ball was lovely, all plans of regicide and usurping put aside. She had forgotten her fondness for _macarons_ and _quiche_ ; tiny foods had always been her weakness. It was more familiar than she liked to admit, though she was relieved none of her mother’s family had deigned to appear. They were too busy fighting over petty land squabbles in the Dales and Free Marches to actually support the name they invoked. Still, a wonderful party.

At the end of the night, it had actually been quite successful. All of the blackmail she had painstakingly collected was put to use as she forced Gaspard, Celene, and Briala into working together. Finding a man tied up naked save for his helmet in the Empress’ quarters had been amusing, though messy on Celene’s part. A woman who managed to charm an Empire into giving her the throne should have been more tactful with cleaning up her messes. Still, it worked very much in the Inquisitor’s favor so there wasn’t much complaining on her part.

Even better than finding the naked _chevalier_ was having Florianne arrested, though. It was a sweet kind of revenge, the kind she could drag out like she loved. Retribution for being too terrible to play the Game and needing to get Corypheus involved. Petty feuding and entitlement had made Orlais into the cesspool of blood and duty it was now, and publicly embarrassing the Grand Duchess was sweeter than even those little cakes had been. It was an old pleasure to be able to indulge in and it wasn’t at the expense of someone who didn’t deserve it.

However, the heat of the combined bodies and gossip was overwhelming. She stepped out onto one of the balconies, skin prickling in the cool air. Exhaustion came over her suddenly and entirely, her breath leaving her in a rush. She leaned on the railing, pressing her fingers into her scar as she just _breathed_ for a few moments. She could smell the garden below and the morning glories twisting along the railing. The hard smell of Orlesian perfume was mostly off of her, the breeze blowing it away. It felt like an entirely different world out in the moonlight, the ball roiling inside the hall.

She could feel him before she heard him. The prickle of the old lyrium in him had the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Then his footsteps came, soft and rhythmic. She only turned when he came right up next to her and set a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“Congratulations,” he said, mouth lifting in that half-smile she adored too much. “How are you feeling after all of that?”

She brought a hand up and squeezed his. “I’m a little worn out, to be honest. Orlais is rubbish.”

“You seemed to handle it quite well, I must say,” he said with a chuckle.

“I enjoy dancing,” she replied lightly. “And desserts and small sandwiches are my weakness. But everyone here was so _draining_. Not to mention the ham was very… _sad_ , not quite despairing enough for me.”

The look he gave her was fond and she returned it wholeheartedly. Cullen stepped away from her and offered his hand, the invitation of a dance. Her heart jumped then melted, settling somewhere around her stomach. She couldn’t just turn down an invitation like that, so she grabbed his hand.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she said as she looked up at him.

He smiled down at her eyes crinkling around the corners. “For you, I’ll try.”

They stepped and turned, spinning lightly as he lead her. “You’re not so bad.”

“Don’t speak so soon,” he replied, eyes crinkling up as he grinned.

He spun them in a small circle, his feet tangling with hers before she corrected him. “You could be worse,” she said, looking down at their feet. “Lothaire has two left feet. Granted I was six and he was sixteen and it was at a cousin’s party, but still, I fell right into the trestle table when he tried to spin me.”

He laughed, face lighting up with the sound as he dipped her slightly. “Maker, it must have been a disaster!”

“Oh it was!” she replied, spirit lifting at the easy conversation. “I was covered in cake and Loth was just standing there looking at me. The entire room started laughing and I swear he almost caught on fire, he looked just like a giant tomato.”

“Did anyone teach you to dance?”

“My governess, before I was brought to the Circle. You?” They spun in a circle again, shuffling closer together.

He looked to the side, a blush spreading over his face. “Mia used to spin me and my siblings around our house when we were small, if that counts for anything.”

“Anything in the past two decades, Cullen?” she asked. They spun in a circle again, slowing down slightly on the terrace.

He cleared his throat, that pretty blush still spread on his face. “Josephine and Leliana had instructed me so I wouldn’t ‘make a fool of myself.’”

“I take it those were their words?”

“Very much so.”

She smiled, wide and happy. Overcome with a sort of embarrassment for finding so much enjoyment in twirling and stepping with him, she pressed her face into his chest. He was warm and comforting, uniform scratching lightly against her skin. He didn’t smell like the Orlesian nobles had; he still smelled like Cullen. Steady lyrium thrum right there with armor polish and sweat. She could write volumes on how much she loved just the way he smelled, how he’d taken that old fear of Templars away. It could have been anything, he could smell like anything else, it didn’t matter; it was the fact that it was attached to _him_ that made her love it.

“Did you dance with any of your suitors at the ball?” she murmured, eyes opening as she looked up at him.

His faced waxed mildly disgusted. “Maker’s breath, they were _relentless_.”

“I understand they were very handsy.” He dipped her slightly and brought her back up, their chests practically pressed together.

 _“Extremely,”_ he replied dryly. “It was an… uncomfortable night.”

“Are you uncomfortable now?” she asked quietly, conscious of his hand on her hip. His other was held in hers, so much larger.

“Not at all,” he said quickly, almost breathlessly.

This was that difference between them now, that heaviness that just crashed down suddenly. She had the feeling that if she just kissed him, he’d be fine with it, but would she? In all honesty, she didn’t know how to handle anything like a relationship. It was fear of driving him away or of somehow not being _good_ enough to deserve the kind of happiness she got when he was around.

They were going slowly now, just spinning in small, loose patterns. Clara swallowed the lump in her throat and looked away from him. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” she said by way to fill the silence.

“Clarissa Lucille Trevelyan,” he responded. A small shiver ran down her spine at the way he said her name, like he was testing the way it would sound when he said it.

“Your name is very Ferelden,” she noted. _Very Ferelden_ just like everything about him from his broad frame to his beautiful eyes to his blond hair.

“I happen to _be_ Ferelden,” he remarked, his voice turning up in a smirk she could almost hear. “I didn’t know your full name _wasn’t_ Clara, that’s all you sign things as.”

“I prefer just Clara; it’s simpler than _Clarissa_. Your name sounds like one from a romance novel, though.” 

“You read too many of those,” he said softly as they came to a halt. She swallowed again, mouth dry, and looked up at him.

Her chest grew that familiar ache again as she saw him. He was beautiful in the moonlight, just like he had been on the battlements. The moon was behind him, the stars glittering faintly through all of the lights around the Winter Palace. The way he was looking back at her almost had her knees buckle. Admiration and _something else_ were behind his eyes, the set of his mouth, how relaxed his forehead was. His hand was still on her hip, his thumb making involuntary circles over her uniform, the touch burning her. She wanted to kiss him, grab onto his jacket and pull them closer together until she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to be so close to him that that armor polish and sweat scent was on her too. She wanted to _tell him_ but she couldn’t figure out how to, there were too many things to say and she didn’t know the words.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed out on the patio. The peace talks had already been dwindling down when she had made her escape outside, and eventually the rest of her entourage went looking for her. They found her with the Commander, just enjoying the silence of crickets and drifting music. It was a good way to end the night. Seeing Florianne in shackles and a ball gown was just the icing on the cake.

The trip back to Skyhold wasn’t exactly eventful, though it was peaceful, not boring. Everyone was relieved and it was nearly palpable. Josephine looked less ready to have a stroke and Leliana laughed more, no bitterness behind the sound this time. Vivienne and Cassandra discussed what had happened at the Winter Palace without the slightest hint of malice. Cole didn't fret, he was content to just sit in the carriage and fiddle with the puzzle box Cullen had given him.

And Cullen. Cullen was quieter, though she knew he rested easier. Her days of travel were spent with him, though she would have preferred nights. They were more familiar to her but she wasn't quite sure what she would do to the Commander in the dark. Probably something she'd regret come sunrise.

It was maddening though, when she spent time with him. There was constant contact and little said. Their legs, a hand, arms, a limb casually draped, they had to be _touching_ each other at all times. It was enough to almost make her explode, every fevered kiss and touch from her dreams making her ache with the want for him to know how she felt. It made for relaxing days of travel and long nights where she lied awake thinking of him. On the fifth day, she only saw him for a bit before he retired early, eyes distant. It added a layer of fear to her, breaking the peaceful return. She wondered if it was _her_ but she had managed to convince herself that he was _honest_ enough to be frank with her if she had done something. It was the lyrium, she deduced. Whenever he fell distant it was _always_ the lyrium, a knot in his skull or spikes in his joints, a fog in his head.

At Skyhold he was quieter still, eyes glassy as Josephine read out Florianne’s crimes. The hall was long and cavernous, nobles and pilgrims alike pressed in tightly as the former Grand Duchess was dragged out still in her gown, the pieces tattered and filthy. Oh she was _something_ , all stupid ambition and blind trust. It was remarkable how incompetent the Orlesian royal family truly was. They might have been a power in Thedas, but Clara was willing to bet it was given more to blind luck than it was cunning or true power.

Florianne was bitter about what had transpired, and Clara could sympathize. It was hard to take the woman seriously with the ridiculous mask still stuck to her face, and on top of how _easily_ she had cracked on the ballroom floor, Clara found she hated her. At the rift in the Winter Palace she had certainly hated her, perhaps with every fiber of her being. But then watching her breakdown as she was dragged away had pulled the hate away, leaving nothing but disdain. The overwhelming need to see her doing something monotonous and base overcame the Inquisitor, and she declared her to labor in fields for the rest of her natural life. Florianne was appropriately unaffected as she was yanked away, a dry observation on her fate falling from her lips. Clara shook her head as she watched the former Grand Duchess fall even further.

After passing judgement, it was hard not to just run after Cullen and prod him into telling her everything. She knew they’d both hate her if she did it, though, so she forced herself to turn for Josephine’s office. Perhaps she could thank her for teaching Cullen how to dance, Maker knows if he had stepped on her feet they probably would have broken.

Josephine was standing at her desk, hand over her mouth as she intently read a letter. Clara cleared her throat to make herself known.

Josephine almost jumped a foot in the air. “Inquisitor! I didn’t see you there.”

“Is that about the judge?” the Inquisitor asked, gesturing to the letter.

“Yes, he agreed to sign the paperwork. Now we just need to get a way to speak with minister Bellise, and this whole nightmare will be over.” Josie sighed and sat heavily in the chair, a hand rubbing at her forehead.

“Will everything be alright after we convince Bellise to help?” Clara asked, walking towards the desk to read the letter.

Josephine nodded and said she would start on acquiring an invitation to her manse right away. Clara listened solemnly as she spoke. Anything Josie needed, all she had to do was ask. She looked sincere and thankful, her face telling that she was just ready for this to be over. Being shadowed by Leliana's bodyguards had left her more frazzled, the constant reminder that there was a contract on her life fraying her nerves considerably.

After Josephine had finished describing the details, she asked for time alone to get everything together. Clara left her for the gardens, intent on speaking with the Inquisition's new resident apostate. It was a wonder to her how people like Morrigan, Solas, and Hawke could have slipped through the cracks so easily. Then again, they hadn’t been from families steeped with duty to the chantry. They’d had a _chance_.

The gardens were peaceful, the smell of embrium thick in the air as she strolled over to clip the blooms. Adan needed them if he was going to continue to research those grenades like she had asked, and the new bouquet was sure to be enough. As she bent over the pots, a small boy’s voice caught her ear. Turning, she spotted him.

He was slight with thick black hair that only made his skin look even paler than it already was. Frowning, she walked up to him and when she saw his eyes it was clear he was Morrigan’s son.

He was very pleasant and sweet, much unlike his mother. Not that Morrigan was _mean_ , but he was _charming_. Cute, even. Very well-behaved as well, something Clara found to be essential in someone under the age of fourteen.

Morrigan was polite as well, even as she answered Clara’s prying questions about the Fifth Blight. She was evasive enough, but spoke fondly of the Hero of Ferelden. If Clara was being honest with herself, she was jealous of the friendship between the Queen of Ferelden and Morrigan. Just talking to her, it was obvious it had endured even through a decade of not seeing each other. That little voice of insecurity in the back of her head whispered that her friendships would never last that long, they’d leave just like everyone else. But she clamped down on it because she didn’t _have_ to listen to her fears anymore. They were unfounded and she had others who were willing to hold them for her, just as she would for them.

She spent the day in the garden, greeting many of the nobles who arrived to Skyhold. Many of them had been attending the peace talks and spoke well of how she handled the entire affair. A few _chevaliers_ arrived as well, commenting on how placated Gaspard seemed now. Clara indicated she had nothing to say on that matter.

At the end of the day, she retreated to Cullen’s chambers as she normally did. It was slightly earlier than usual, the sun just beginning to set orange and pink across the mountains. When she arrived at his room, it was empty, save one soldier placing a stack of papers on his desk.

She pointed Clara in the direction of Cassandra. The Inquisitor wasn’t sure if she had run faster to get _anywhere_ in her life, yet there she was, nearly sprinting to the forge with a sick feeling in her gut.

The arguing stopped when she walked in, Cullen giving her a sad, sidelong look before excusing himself. She watched him as he left, his face turnning red in a sign that he knew she was looking. Cassandra sighed heavily, dragging the Inquisitor towards her with the sound. As she spoke of what Cullen had asked, the sick feeling turned into a stone, heavy and uncomfortable. When the Seeker asked her to go and speak with him because he _trusted_ her, her lips squashed together grimly. He _respected_ her, but he didn’t want to worry her. Unbelievably, Clara found herself _angry_ as she stalked up to his warm little room.

She opened the side door quickly, narrowly avoiding getting her nose broken by his lyrium kit as it launched into the door frame. He waxed several different emotions at once once the dust settled. From angry to terrified to pained, he stumbled out from behind his desk. She was there in front of him in an instant, trying to let him know it was _okay_. She didn’t touch him, all of those books on withdrawal and lyrium scrolling through her head as she watched him.

The analytic part of her registered all of the signs: pacing, anxiousness, sweating, rambling, rage, doubt, they were all there as he tried to get her to _understand_ what he had done. He wasn’t giving enough of himself, he wanted to fix everything so badly he couldn’t handle the thought of leaving what he had wanted most in life just to let everything crumble away because the Order still pulled at him with those blue strings.

As he confessed how he felt about mages, the Order, Circles, Ferelden, tried to make her see that he was the Templar she had feared lurking around for the past 14 years, she tried to summon the desire to be angry. She wasn’t, she was just… upset. Even as he yelled and punched the bookshelf, she tried to comfort him still, but he threw it back at her, told her all about that old hate he carried like a stone. The Circle in Ferelden, the demons scratching away at his mind even ten years later, the nightmares that came along with it. How he had held onto it, that anger and hate, and how _badly_ he didn’t want to be him anymore.

Her chest ached as she listened, that picture of him in her head getting another layer on top of what she already had. The darkened, shameful rage that sat right there under his beautiful eyes was heavy. If she could give up her old hates, those ancient injustices that no longer even had living witnesses, she believed he could too. Perhaps he even had already, from the way he agonized over it. The _want_ to be better, do better by those who’d come up wrong in life was right there for him, an integral part of who he was. The way he so fervently wanted to let go of what had put those scars all over him let her breathe easier. He was still _Cullen_ , still _safe_ , he wasn’t holding onto it anymore, he’d let it go and was dealing with that lack of grounding emotion. Flat-out, asking him if he wanted to ruin everything he'd done for himself to get control, was it worth it to ruin it just in this moment of doubt? His defeated exhale told her everything she needed to know; no more lyrium, no more Templar, no more Chantry, he was  _done._

And she got it, understood what it was like to give up something you held so close to who you were that when it was gone you were terrified of living without it. So she left when he asked her to, crawled into her own bed and had those nightmares again, no more fevered dreams of his strong hands. They were all green demons and swords clattering on the ground, a loud, sharp staccato as the blades fell differently each time. The eerie glow of summoned ice, running red with blood from _someone_ , an arm on the floor. Prayers screamed through the pain, soft shoes on softer feet as help came running.

She awoke the next morning, shaking and _cold_. A bath was drawn and she stayed in the steaming water until she felt cooked, trying to let the tremors subside as she desperately wished Cullen were there with her. Like so many times before, she wanted to exchange those traumas, they’d weigh differently in each other’s hands, she was sure of it. He could hold her the right way so she wouldn’t be _afraid_ anymore, and she was sure she knew just how to wrap her arms around him so those clawing demons wouldn’t be so loud.

She climbed out and dressed herself, taking a few moments to ask Vivienne for another bottle of potion before she left for the Storm Coast with Bull. She obliged and asked for her Wyvern heart. Clara didn’t pry; after the episode with Cullen the day before, she knew better than to ask for something not freely given.

As Bull, Sera, and Dorian waited outside the gates for her, she pulled a page over and quickly wrote her a letter to bring to Cullen.

_I’ll see you when I return. Promise me you’ll try to be alright, and I will too._

It was short, and she contemplated writing more, but if she did she’d write him volumes. So she signed it, short and tight, _Clara_ , and passed it to the page before she got onto her horse and rode out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is going to be shortest chapter so far, I can tell you that. It's only like, seven pages. If I have to look at it anymore I'm going to go blind, so take it, it's really just an indulgent bridge chapter, but I like the simplicity of it. Also school started again this week so I haven't slept at all. Gotta get that painting degree.
> 
> Thanks for reading so far, tell me how you felt as usual!


	10. Je veux être avec toi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he _was_ hers, wholly and completely, just as she was his. He kissed her on the battlements, hard and fervent as his mouth moved against hers. His hands on her hips fit perfectly, her legs practically melted as she leaned into his embrace. Those were the days of those two wonderful weeks she spent at Skyhold. They were easy days of paperwork or reading with Dorian or sparring with Cassandra or sitting with Cole.

Everyone trusted her too much. Dorian, Cullen, Bull, Cassandra, they had no idea what they were getting into when they asked for her opinion. She was still mean, even under all of those layers. When you peeled away the freckles and affection, she was screaming inside, all anger and cruelty. There was that cold blizzard she always had under her skin, roaring and threatening to freeze anyone who came too close.

Which, again, was why she couldn’t understand the _trust_ so many of her companions had in her. The old her would have tossed the Chargers off the cliffs herself, anything to cement an alliance that she saw as profitable. It was _logical_ and _rational_ , a few sacrifices for the greater good. They were just mercenaries, they’d stared death down before. They had a _purpose_.

“Sound the retreat,” she’d said, though, because she was disgusted the old her would have killed them, those people she had spoken to and scraped off the tavern floor. People with lives and stories and _purpose_ greater than a sacrifice they weren’t aware they were making.

Bull’s face was relieved, it was the answer he’d _wanted_. No one was ever going to say it, they were too afraid to tell themselves what they wanted to hear, so they let her say it instead. Just like Cassandra and the Seekers, Cullen and Samson, Dorian and his father, they had to be _told_ what they wanted to do, hear, believe. They wanted to pass the weight of judgement off to her, the larger-than-life Inquisitor because she was bigger than they were, they thought she could hold them.

The travel back to Skyhold after that was short and strained. It was seven days of glancing over her shoulder for those assassins Clara was sure were following, out to kill their rogue agent. Memories of Templar hunters who had brought back a young mage covered in bruises and cuts came back to her, and she wanted nothing more than to be back in Cullen’s little warm room with the broken ceiling.

Those seven days of constant travel afforded her time to just _think_. Everything passed through her head, from Cole’s darling voice to Cassandra expressing her hesitance for Divine candidacy. She remembered Cullen and his anger in his room and her chest ached again. He had been too soft for the Order, too blind by the want to protect when so many other Templars were bombs just waiting to go off. _So many_ were there to hurt mages, satisfy that inadequacy that they felt by asserting their state-ordained superiority over others. It was a power struggle of dominance and no one was ever going to win.

When they finally arrived back at Skyhold, she made good on her note to him. She changed quickly, fatigue and disgust rearing up as she caught a look at herself in her mirror. Her face was windburnt and she could smell the sweat and dust on her body, and the desire to not be repulsive when she saw Cullen beat out the actual want to see him. She stripped and bathed quickly, not bothering to wait for the water she summoned to heat up. Shivering, she evacuated the tub, dried off, and put on fresh clothes. _Then_ , she made her way anxiously to his office.

The doors were closed, but light was coming out from under the doorframe. She opened the door, disappointed by the empty room, then spotted the other door slightly ajar. Opening it softly, she saw him standing there like he had a month ago, staring out over the purple mountains.

She walked up to him slowly, heart lifting as his lips curled up into a smile. The dark circles under his eyes were gone and he looked relatively clean-shaven, two signs that had her heart thudding in relief. He thanked her for sticking by him and helping him through with his addiction. He was so sincere and _there_ when he spoke, she felt herself relax with how candid he was being. She didn’t quite know what to say to him, unsure if she could string together the words to thank him just for being around, but she didn’t have to. He asked her how _she_ was, and she was too close to him, too far down this road to give him anything less than the truth.

She was _terrified_. It was the weight of the Inquisition on her shoulders and all the people who looked up at her, and what if she failed? If she fell, who would pick up and lead? Most likely Cassandra, if truth be told, but Cassandra was more likely to find a way to pick _Clara_ up again and carry on than lead herself.

Cullen listened, a warm hand on her arm as they both breathed in the mountain air. It was comforting and familiar and she _needed_ to tell him, she was finally ready to just spit it out, the crippling fear that either of them would be lost before she said _something_ spurring her on as they walked back into his office.

When she asked to speak to him in private, her heart was almost thundering too loudly to hear him agree. On the battlements, as she awkwardly forced out how she felt, _Maker_ , she was bad at this, she found herself digging up old insecurities about mage and Templar. The _way_ he was looking at her was enough to stop her heart all together. A soft smile curling up gently as his eyes crinkled and she couldn’t see any hint of malice or an indication that he didn’t _feel the same way._ When he mentioned he thought about what he was going to say to her in this situation, her knees went weak because _he_ thought about them together nearly as much as she did. _He_ wanted her to hold him the same way she wanted her arms around him. His regret and shame for who he had been and was now, how she had grounded him and destroyed those old hates he had let go, he was _ashamed_ of it all, but he wanted her, thought about her, _liked_ her. She didn’t know where the courage to just not throw herself off of the battlements when she whispered that _yes, she wanted this_ came from, but she mustered it up all the same.

 _The way he was looking at her_ , she couldn’t breathe as he came closer, her eyes sliding shut as she braced herself on the balustrade and he braced himself on her hips. She could almost feel him pressed against her, the ghost feeling of his lips on hers making her shiver.

And then the soldier burst through and she was afraid she was going to die of embarrassment. She only prayed death came _after_ she was able to get her hands on the messenger and _kill him_. She started turning away, adrenaline fizzling out as the moment was lost, trying to ignore the way her face burned. An apology started to slip out, an excuse to run and flee the country in embarrassment on the tip of her tongue.

Then his hands pulled her face up towards his, his lips crashed down and he was _kissing her_. She didn’t know what to do suddenly, his mouth was moving against hers and it was so _good_. She could feel a little of his stubble rubbing against her chin, the sensation making her tilt her head back. Her hands came up, unsure of what to do and she settled for grabbing his elbows. It soon turned into her scrabbling at the back of his armor as she tried to press herself closer, tried to get him to kiss her harder. It was so much better than the razor sharp kisses in her dreams, it was _real_ and she felt all those months of furtive glances and pining in his lips.

He pulled away much too quickly, hands still cupping her face. Eyes widening momentarily before he looked down and _not at her_ , apprehension flashed behind his lovely eyes. “I’m sorry… That was… um… really nice,” he said quietly, face flushing.

 _Nice?_ “Do you regret that?” she asked nervously. Her hands tightened their grip on his armor.

“Not at all,” he murmured, smile tugging at his lips as leaned in for another kiss.

This one was slower than the last, no rush of his lips as he pulled her towards him. He was more careful, his hands on her hips, her arms thrown around his neck as she pulled herself up to meet him. It was _sweet_ , just like he was, his new stubble rubbing wonderfully against her skin. Her own nervousness dissipating with how sure he had become, she sighed, opening her mouth into the kiss.

He pressed her harder into the balustrade, mouth sliding against hers and it felt so _right_. He was beautiful, she couldn’t believe it was happening, it felt unreal. His hands on her hips, gripping her hard as she tried to give him all those months of anxiety. She took every little groan and sigh he made, mouth curling into a smile as she kissed him. A sudden giggle bubbled up and she had to turn away, a snort ripping itself out as she gave into the giddy laughter.

He pressed an open kiss to her cheek before asking her what was so funny. She just shook her head, practically _beaming_ at him and he mirrored her smile. That golden smile lit up his whole face, his eyes crinkling in that way she loved. She brought up a hand and rubbed at her eyes, pressing down how wonderful he was. He took her hand and held it as he kissed her again, this one quick and short, before he pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand, right over her mark. It was _perfect_.

The sun was almost down, just a few moments from sliding over the mountains entirely. They walked back to his office, close enough to casually brush fingers or thighs, nothing that wouldn’t look like an accidental touch. They were both flushed and grinning, trying to crush their smiles down and out of sight of any passersby.

His room was small and warm, just as comforting as it had been every time she had been there before, the door locking behind them. He was still smiling, eyes crinkled up so much she could barely see them, her own cheeks aching as she mirrored his expression. She kissed him again in the middle of his office, her hands on his face, fingers scraping over his stubble just like she had wanted to do so many times before. It scratched just right and he made the most _wonderful_ noise when she did it that she had to break away, she was grinning too hard again. She pressed her smiling lips to his jaw, stretching to reach. It wasn’t so much a kiss as her just rubbing her lips against his skin, feeling that coarse part of him in a different way as she hummed her approval.

She could feel him smiling against her face, arms around her back squeezing her tightly before he let go and pried her off. Clara frowned at him, hand sliding down to his chest plate.

“Go sit on the couch,” he said quietly, his gloved hands moving to hold her own. “We can talk for the rest of the night.”

She nodded, throat too tight to manage saying anything, her smile turning warm and affectionate. His eyes were hooded, looking down at her with subdued adoration shining behind them. She took her hands out of his, blushing furiously under the sincerity of his gaze and went to sit on the couch. He looked at her for a second before he began peeling himself out of the armor he wore like skin. He was fast at it, moving efficiently until he was in the thick red long-sleeved shirt he wore underneath and those doeskin pants. The boots stayed on, the gloves and guards came off.

He sat down next to her and neither suddenly knew what to do. She wanted him to grab her and hold her, run his hands over her face and press those gentle kisses she craved to her skin. Embarrassment reared up and she turned away from him, hand going up to rub at her scar.

“Clara,” he murmured quietly, reaching around her and taking her hands in his own. Calloused thumbs brushed over her skin, small soothing circles that spelled _It’s alright_. His mouth brushed over her scar, her eyes sliding shut as he gently pressed his lips to her eyelid and then followed the scar up through her eyebrow. Those hands moved to come around her waist, pulling her flush against him. It was warm and intimate and his lips on her felt better than she _ever_ could have imagined.

She was pressed up against his chest and she sighed, taking the initiative and wrapping her arms around him. Warm and solid, he tensed and then relaxed into the embrace, let her pull him as she tried to get him into a better angle to just _hold_ him. She laid back on the small loveseat, adjusting so she could relax her head on the arm while he settled. He had his arms around her, head resting on her shoulder and chest as his face pressed into her neck. It took her a few moments of him breathing easily and her not knowing where to put her hands anymore to realise he had cuddled up to her like a cat.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, voice muffled as he breathed the words into her neck. His voice was low and soft, a hint of fear that he had pushed too far too soon vibrating behind what he had said.

Surprisingly, she was. “Yes, actually,” she replied, settling her hands on him. One hand held onto the arm he had wrapped around her and the other began combing loosely through his hair. “I’ve never held someone like this before.” His hair was somewhat stiff and she had to smother the giggle that welled up as she imagined him brushing his hair back and oiling it every morning to tame those tight curls.

“Me either,” he breathed, face nuzzling against her neck.

This was a side of him she hadn’t seen before. It was sudden but still a long time coming, this closeness she needed to have with him. She held onto him, safe as they lied on the small loveseat. Both of their legs were hanging off the end, but it didn’t matter. He was solid in her arms, warmth and lyrium thrum washing over her. That _something else_ she had always seen right there behind his eyes, the set of his mouth, the way his hands held onto her was a confirmation that he felt for her too. Her fingers continued to comb through his hair as she murmured to him about nothing. She _wanted_ to tell him how much she loved his eyes, his sincerity, his ability; she _needed_ him know she wanted him in spite of his addiction, scars, mistakes, _everything_.

“What changed, today?” Clara asked eventually, taking her hand out of his hair.

He leaned up and looked at her, those gorgeous Ferelden brown eyes tired. “What do you mean?”

She held his face in her hand, thumb running over his cheek. “ _Today_. I… didn’t know you felt that way about me, Cullen.”

“Oh. Well, I _do_ ,” he said, face flushing. He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

It was her turn to blush. “Really?” she asked, shame and feelings of stupidity rising. She should’ve just not said anything. Her eyes turned down and her hand fell away from his face to cover her own.

“ _Clara_ , I-- _might’ve_ been wondering--I-- _Maker’s breath_.” He groaned in exasperation, face expressing that he couldn’t find the right way to put his words. An arm unhooked from under her and he cupped her face, pushing her own hand away. “I didn’t want to make you _uncomfortable_. You wanted me to come with you, and I’ve been trying to think of what I might say to you should you… _return_ my feelings.”

“I did ask you, didn’t I?” she observed. Her breath came out in a rush and she closed her eyes, leaning into his hand. “I was afraid of ruining our friendship, I’ve never _had_ someone I cared about this way before, I wasn’t even sure what I felt at first but I _care_ for you--”

He cut her off with another kiss, their teeth clacking together for a moment as he moved his hand to the back of her neck. She was glad he’d stopped her before she said something she’d regret. It was so hard to _speak_ around him, she always said more than she meant to, her feelings getting the better of her. Nothing mean or cold ever came to her mind around him and it was _terrifying_ , that was how she kept herself separate from others. If she ever said too much to them, she knew how to brush them off but _Cullen_ was something different. _Cullen_ with his warm eyes and gentle hands and sweet heart, she couldn’t be mean to him like she had been before.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, just the simple act of holding each other extremely cathartic in and of itself. It let out all of that aching she had felt for months, it was the intimacy she had wanted to give to him for so long but was too afraid to. He was so _warm_ , and she could feel his heart beating against her as he laid there over her, the both of them falling asleep in each other’s comforting embrace. It was peaceful, and her dreams weren’t about that aching longing she’d held onto for so long and they weren’t made of ugly green demons that clawed at her anger.

Dawn cracked through the arrow slits in his walls and filtered down from the hole in his ceiling. He woke up first, her own eyes opening when she felt him picking himself off of her. She grabbed his arm as he got up, groggy and aching.

"I didn't mean to wake you." He was flushed and his hair was a mess and he was  _beautiful._

"I'm surprised you could," she murmured. "I slept through a fire spell gone awry at the Circle once. Do you really have to get up now?"

“I don’t want anyone to whisper,” he said softly, bending down and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Well the Inquisitor did just technically spend the night in your quarters,” she replied sleepily with a smile, stretching on the couch.

He smirked, his mouth pulling in that way she loved. “Yes, _sleeping_.”

“I recall hugging,” she said, sitting up. “And kissing.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to that scar on his lip, all residual awkwardness and fear from the day before burned off as she slept in his searing embrace.

He shivered slightly at the touch, leaning more towards to her and kissing her fully. She kept her eyes open this time, watching the way his face scrunched in concentration. Eyebrows knitting together, his mouth moved smoothly against hers. Her heart thudded when he pulled away and saw her watching him, skipping as he blushed.

“I’ll see you after I get some work done,” she murmured, pressing another kiss to his lips because after all of her fevered dreams she couldn’t get enough of the real thing.

She nearly ran to her quarters after finally getting up the willpower to leave his warm room and soft kisses. Her neck was stiff and her arm was sore but it was so _good_ she didn’t even care. For once she didn’t feel that heavy weight of _Inquisitor_ on her shoulders, the walls didn’t press her in from all sides. Her emotions were both under control and she was a wreck, it was frightening and wonderful.

Her rumpled clothes came off and she put on something looser, already wondering when she would let herself see him again. The pile of work on her desk had grown into a monster and she groaned, figuring it would be a while. It was large and imposing, stuffed with letters from the nobles at the Winter Palace. Her fate was unavoidable, so she sat down and cracked into the pile.

Most of the letters were about material gifts or soldiers that would be sent as conscripts. Others congratulated her on her wonderful display at the Winter Palace, her disgust mounting with each letter. It was a little too close to home, the casual way they referred to what had almost been an instance of regicide. Not to mention that so many referred to to Florianne’s downfall as a _show_ , she stopped reading at lunch, rubbing her eyes so the words would stop swimming in front of her.

The walk to Cullen’s office went by quickly. He was at his desk writing letters, face creased in concentration until he heard her walk in. He brightened up immediately and her chest swelled.

“I need to borrow you,” she murmured quietly, leaning over the desk at him.

“Give me a moment, and I’m yours.”

* * *

 

And he _was_ hers, wholly and completely, just as she was his. He kissed her on the battlements, hard and fervent as his mouth moved against hers. His hands on her hips fit perfectly, her legs practically melted as she leaned into his embrace. Those were the days of those two wonderful weeks she spent at Skyhold. They were easy days of paperwork or reading with Dorian or sparring with Cassandra or sitting with Cole.

The nights were different. Every dream, _every single thing_ her mind had managed to convince her of about him was wrong. The way he sighed her name while they kissed on that couch was so much different than she had ever imagined. It was breathy and heartfelt, like he couldn’t quite figure out how to say her name so she’d know how he felt. It killed her, made her heart beat so fast under his fingertips and against his chest that he was always asking her if she was okay.

Those nights were always frustratingly innocent as well. It was just kissing, the easy slide of their mouths, pressing lips to all exposed skin, but never moving clothing. He kept his long clothes on, it was like a second set of armor for him, extra skin that he kept in place to hide what he really looked like. She wanted to run her hands up his back, drag her nails over every scar on his body, but she didn’t. She respected him too much to try and shove him faster, especially after all of those months of furtive glances and burning fingers. It was frustrating too, she _wanted_ him to feel free to touch her, but he still waited for her to move his hands first. Her thighs, knees, breasts, he wouldn’t go anywhere she hadn’t put his hands before. It was such a change from the awkward fumbling in the dark corners of the Circle she was almost sick with affection for him.

She wore looser clothing to go and see him, too. Shirts with low collars or breezy blouses she could push aside so he’d trail kisses down her neck, shoulder, collar bones. She lived for those nights when they just lied on the loveseat together, their hips fitting together perfectly as he ran his hands through her hair, gently rubbed the thick scar under her hair, kissed every freckle on her face, trailed his fingers lightly over her lips. Their hands went together well, his thick fingers warm and solid as she pressed her long, thin ones against them. His mouth was searing on each part of her body, and he developed a way of kissing her neck that had her breathless while she found a way to press her fingers against his hips that had him sighing her name.

It all grinded to a halt when she was walking through the great hall one afternoon and passed by Varric speaking with a dwarven girl. She was small, even for a dwarf, and spoke to Varric like they were old lovers and even older friends. When she mentioned red lyrium the bottom of Clara’s stomach dropped out, and she assured Varric that they’d leave the next morning for Valammar, red lyrium was a matter of utmost importance to the Inquisition. He’d been both relieved and grim at the prospect of going up against more of the stuff, a sentiment she shared wholeheartedly.

That night as her and Cullen murmured quietly to each other, she told him she was going to Valammar the next day.

“Red lyrium?” he asked, fear evident in his voice. He propped himself up to look at her, eyes tracing around her face.

She nodded, pulling herself up so she was sitting. “We’ll only be gone a few weeks.”

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked immediately, sounding just like The Commander he was when he drilled the recruits in the morning.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she huffed, tugging the collar of her shirt back into place.

“Someone has to.”

“Cassandra has you covered,” she said dully. Then she saw the sincerity in his eyes and softened, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. “You’re too sweet for me, Cullen.”

His mouth quirked in that smile she loved so much but the blush spreading on his face betrayed him to his embarrassment. “You don’t mean that, Clara.”

“Maybe not _too_ sweet,” she amended with a swift kiss to his scar. “How have your headaches been?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

She rolled her eyes at him, running a hand through her hair. “You’re so preoccupied with how _I’m_ feeling and you never want to talk about how you are.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand a bit. “It’s not as bad as it’s been for a while, but it started throbbing this morning.”

Her thumb brushed over his cheek and her heart melted. “Come on, lay down,” she said, urging him to lay back on her.

He complied, though he grumbled that she shouldn’t be fussing over him. Her hands in his hair shushed him, his eyes sliding shut as she combed her fingers through his mussed curls. A few moments passed before she took her hands away, chuckling slightly at the little noise of discontent he made. She shook her hands out, reaching and grasping for those thin tendrils of magic she could grab at. Bringing her hands up to her mouth, she blew over them and was rewarded with that fine icy mist she had used to draw whorls on windows when she was small.

Her hands went back in his hair and he jumped at the sudden cold contact. “Shh, hold still,” she said quietly, working her fingers over his head.

“Your hands are freezing,” he replied, eyes slipping shut. He sighed after a few moments, face relaxing completely and she felt her chest grow warm. Helping each other in little ways, that’s what she’d always wanted. Someone she cared about so deeply she’d do anything to help them. Someone who felt the same way about her.

It was late at night by the time she had the heart to wake him up. He was quiet and relaxed, more serene than she had seen him in a while. It had her heart aching with how often he must be in pain but there was pride there behind her heart. He was stronger than he thought, a better man than most and he did it all because he wanted to finally make a difference. Those years in the Order had left him with claw marks that bled if he twisted the wrong way but he still got up in the morning and did his job.

He had to be less hard on himself, hang up his accomplishments next to those old failures so he knew what he was doing to fix the past. Focus on the good and the bad so neither seemed too large. She wanted to stay with him and see that, see him through the good _and_ the bad.

She kissed him goodnight, long and slow in the middle of his room before she retired to her own. Dreaming wasn’t so bad that night. They were mostly remembered touches and kisses, slow and warm and wonderful. She could still feel every place he put his hands on her when she woke up, body loose and gut tight as she dressed for Valammar.

In the great hall, Varric was already prepared to go, and Clara asked that he get Blackwall for her while she asked Vivienne to come. Cassandra would have been preferable, another strong friend sworn to shield her, but she didn’t want anything to start between her and Varric. Maker knows there would have been blood on the floors of the Deep Roads should either antagonize the other.

Vivienne agreed to go, and Clara left her to prepare herself for the journey. She wandered down to the training yard where she saw Cullen still overseeing the training for the day and walked quietly up to him.

“Have a moment?” she asked softly, leaning around from behind.

He jumped slightly and looked around before spotting her and grinning. “Inquisitor! I was hoping you would see me before you left.”

Her face stretched into a smile against her will, wide and splitting. “I just wanted to let you know we’ll be leaving soon,” she announced. Then, more quietly as she stepped closer to him, “I promise to be safe.”

His hand sought hers, their fingers brushing lightly over their gloves. No extended touches or looks here, not in public, this side of each of them was reserved for the other only. “You’ll get enough sleep?”

“Will you?”

He laughed at that. “I can try.”

They spoke for a few more minutes before Varric called Clara over and they were off. She wrote letters to Cullen regularly until they found the thaig. Then it was only two that she kept inside her coat so she could send them with the mail carrier when they climbed out.

Valammar itself was _infested_. Red lyrium smugglers, darkspawn, those disgusting little deepstalkers. Bianca herself turned out to be the crux of the problem, though that didn’t really even seem to come as a surprise to anyone in the party. When she defended herself, tried to shift that blame away, explained what lyrium was, it was like someone had taken the wind out of the Inquisitor. It was _alive_ lyrium was _alive_ and people _ate it_.

She sent her letters to Cullen that first night out of the Deep Roads and found two waiting for her. They were long and sweet, comforting to read after those nights knowing what was growing in the Deep Roads. The relief that Cullen wasn’t taking lyrium anymore reared up suddenly and completely and left her weak. She was almost positive that it was more than they had originally known, more than her and Dorian had argued about during their time in the library.

When she returned the Skyhold, she didn’t see Cullen like she so desperately wanted to. She marched right up to her room and stripped out of her armor, lying down on her bed in a thin shift. She wanted to sleep but that implacable fear was still there. Her skin was too tight to sleep and her head had started throbbing not too long ago. Rest was a futile effort and she didn’t really want to face  _anyone_ looking like this, let alone Cullen. She felt weak and tired and achy and she _hated it_ , that old disgust for her own inadequacy bubbling up inside of her.

She kicked the covers off of herself and stomped down to the library, pulled down any and all books pertaining to darkspawn or lyrium, and marched back into her room. Dorian tried to stop her and talk, but she shrugged him off, too upset to even fight. Inside her room it was too stuffy, so she dropped the book down on her desk and opened the windows, let the cold mountain air rush through the room so she’d feel more like her old self.

Skin still feeling wrong and head aching, she started on the books. The words swam in front of her eyes, blurring together into one long string in her head as she read book after book. She didn’t go down to dinner that night, only drinking what a page brought her at the request of Leliana. Sleep didn’t come to her either, not really. Perhaps a few hours at most of quiet sweating in her desk chair until she jumped awake and started reading again.

Studying didn’t make it any better. Everything was just as bad as it had been before, if not worse. It was the fear of uncertainty, the knowledge that they ultimately didn’t know _anything_ about darkspawn or lyrium past the surface. Lyrium was _alive_ , it thrummed with its own energy, it grew like lichen on a cave and was just as deadly. And it was only made worse by knowing it could become tainted but it didn’t _die_.

Clara stayed in her room for two days, reading and trying to organize her thoughts, write down what she thought so everything didn’t seem so bad anymore. If she could _understand_ it then she could fix it. Everything was connected so much more closely than she originally thought, as became evident the more she read on each subject with the others in mind.

The end of the second day, she had fallen asleep on her desk again. The dreams were harsh, not dark green but terribly red. Those reaching fingers were entirely more terrifying now, capable of grabbing and pulling her down into those taint-infested tunnels. No blissful dreams of Cullen’s warm hands or soft eyes, it was just _red--_

“Clara?” someone asked quietly, gently shaking her shoulder.

She jumped, nightmares still scratching red rings around her eyes, blinking them away as she looked up blearily. “Cullen?”

He was quiet as he looked down at her. “You’re not alright,” he said, grip on her shoulder tightening.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, pushing away from her desk. He let her go and watched her with guarded eyes. “I’m fine,” she said again, more softly as she tried to convince herself.

“You haven’t been out of your room in two _days_ , everyone’s worried.” He stepped closer, helping her as she tried to stand.

“I was studying.” She coughed a few times, trying to clear her lungs and breathe better after sitting slumped over for so long.

He peered at the book on her desk, face scrunching up. “Darkspawn?”

“Lyrium, darkspawn, the Fade,” she replied tiredly. “Bianca discovered red lyrium was corrupted _regular_ lyrium, which means it’s _alive._ ”

“Lyrium is alive,” he said slowly, bringing a hand to rub at his face. “That’s… not good. It’s a _metal_ , though, Clara.”

“No, we _thought_ it was,” she said quickly. She shuffled around the desk for her notes, finding them written on odd ends of papers.

He put a hand on her back and quietly said her name, warm and close and she could taste the lyrium in the air and she just didn’t know _how_ to feel.

“You don’t get it,” she said, voice raising in an effort to make him understand. “It makes so much _sense_. Darkspawn dig for the old gods, because they hear them singing to them. A _song_. Those ancient magisters that cracked the Golden City wide open, they did it for their gods. The Fade may not even be a part of our world as it is an entirely different realm altogether. But why do we go there when we sleep, and why not dwarves?”

“Lyrium,” he said, soft and unsure. “They don’t dream because they live right next to lyrium.”

She nodded her head, bun shaking loose slightly. “Exactly, so what is it about lyrium that severs the connection to the Fade? Tranquil are branded with lyrium to stop their dreams and emotions. The Fade spirits embody _us_ in our most raw forms and the Fade is riddled with lyrium nodes. We drink it to control our magic or to amplify it. In its most raw form, if a mage so much as touches it, they could die, but mages have a strong connection to the Fade, so how could lyrium kill mages and prevent dwarves from producing mages all together?

“And for that matter, lyrium is described as _singing_. It’s alive, it’s affected by darkspawn taint, but it doesn’t _kill_ it, like it does every other living creature. In fact, it seems to do the very opposite. It weakens the Veil and it makes people go crazy and it _grows_ at such an alarming rate. If red is just corrupted lyrium, it would make sense that it is so effective in repressing magic. It turns whatever it comes into contact with into more red lyrium and it’s so powerful…” Clara trailed off, looking down at her desk. So many open passages and books, it was hard to keep track of it all.

Cullen approached her and placed a hand over hers. “What are you trying to get at?”

She didn’t look up to meet his gaze. “I don’t know,” she said shaking her head. “I’m afraid of what it all means. If lyrium _is_ the Fade, and it’s alive, what is it all about? Magic, lyrium, darkspawn, the Fade, it’s all connected, and it _terrifies_ me.” She took a deep shuddering breath and let it out.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her up into a tight hug. A hand went to her hair to smooth down the pieces that had come loose. “It’s fine, Clara,” he murmured into her hair. “Go to sleep, you’ve been awake for too long. Go speak with Solas when you wake up.”

She clung tightly to the back of his cloak. His chest plate beaded with condensation where her face was pressed against it, her breath blowing smoky across the metal. She hated how vulnerable she felt and how confused she was about it. It felt consuming, and not comforting. She felt closer to an answer, yet so many more questions had sprung up.

“Alright,” she said quietly, and he brought her to her bed and left her there, going to Vivienne for another sleeping potion. She laid there quietly, awake and dizzy, waiting for him to come back. Her head hurt and she teared up when she blinked and she was _tired_. The dreamless sleep that Vivienne could give seemed more enticing as each minute Cullen was gone passed.

He came back and she turned towards him, swallowing thickly as he handed her the potion and began to remove his armor. It was a thick black liquid, but it tasted sweet like berries, and she drank a little before pushing the stopper in and climbing back towards the headboard.

“You’re sleeping here?” she asked as he set his plate and mail on the chest at the end of the bed.

He climbed on the bed next to her, his socks, pants, and shirt still on. “I don’t think you’ll sleep if I leave you alone. Unless you want me to go?”

“No!” she said quickly, a blush burning on her face as she reached for him. “I want you to stay.”

He nodded at her and pulled her into his lap, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. She suddenly felt like a child again, wrapped up in her matron’s arms as she rocked her to sleep. It was comforting, relaxing, tension in her muscles leaking out until she was slumped against him.

They lied down, her still pressed against him. It was a reverse of all of those nights on his loveseat, her being held in his long arms as she pressed her face into his neck. Armor polish, sweat, lyrium, the weave of his shirt, how long his legs were, the feeling of his breath ghosting over the top of her head, it all tugged at her until she fell asleep in the embrace, no haunting nightmares clawing at her mind just _Cullen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a long time coming. And I'm not posting at 5 am, that's new! Also, apparently Ao3 wasn't saving the chapter titles, so those are up now. If you don't know what they mean google translate is a good option, though some are a bit more... metaphorical and don't translate very well, so you can [ask me](http://mythalmythos.tumblr.com) if you want the direct meaning. Otherwise, remember to tell me what you thought!


	11. Te perdre est ma plus grande peur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then again, she knew what _she_ did to _him_. His breathing hitched when she grabbed at his hips, the way her lips brushed over his scar, how she held his thick wrists in her long fingers. It all killed him the same way he killed her.

She woke up the next morning with Cullen still there, that thick lyrium thrum covering her like a cloud. It was early, judging from the pale sunlight streaming in through the still-open windows. Her eyes burned as she blinked them, tears squeezing themselves out. Her arms were sore and she felt sweaty, the kind of aching that came from sleeping crushed against something too warm all night.

And Cullen was lying there, awake and rubbing circles into her back. Judging by how alert he was, he’d been awake for sometime, perhaps an hour.

“Goodmorning,” Clara murmured, throat still thick with sleep.

“Are you feeling better?” His hand stopped rubbing her back and he began extricating himself from her embrace.

She sat up and cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m alright. It’s been months and I’m still getting used to the fact that I need to sleep.” She felt like a mess. Her hair was all about her and snarled, her mouth was dry and thick and she could feel the sheet marks still on her arms and face.

“You’re a remarkably heavy sleeper,” he remarked, mouth quirked up. He’d pushed himself up and was leaning back on the headboard, hair a mess and shirt all wrinkled. “I take it you didn’t do a lot of that in the Circle, then?”

“I sleep best with someone else there and I didn’t _have_ to take care of myself at the Circle, really,” she replied, rolling her eyes. She brought a hand up and laid it on his chest, feeling how warm he was through that thick red shirt. “I still forget to feed myself, most of the time.”

“Cassandra has told me about it.” He took her hand and held it between his own.

“You two talk about me?”

“We worry when you’re gone, and Josephine and Leliana as well.” His thumbs brushed quiet circles on her skin, an old habit he’d formed whenever he had her hands.

She gave him her other hand, let their fingers lace together. “What do you talk about?”

“It’s actually very boring,” he said with a shrug, but she caught that small silent smirk tugging on his lips.

“I’m the Inquisitor, _nothing_ about me is ever boring,” she replied airily with her own grin. His hands squeezed hers and she scooted closer to him, legs draped over his own as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“It’s mostly reports,” he explained quietly, looked down at their entwined hands. “Strategy, or the letters you write.”

“Have you read them my letters?” she asked nervously, blushing at what she had confessed to him while she was writing by her bedroll at night. They were all about how much she missed holding his hands or lying on the couch together while they talked. She blushed even harder, _wishing_ they had been more obscene; it would have been less embarrassing.

“Of course not,” he said immediately and her face burned hard, biting the inside of her cheek for even thinking he’d do that.

“Right. I’m sorry. It’s just still so novel that people don’t read my letters.” She sighed and turned into his shoulder, pressing her face into the fabric of his shirt.

“This isn’t the Circle,” he replied softly.

“And you’re not a Templar.” She sighed, sound muffled by his shirt. “I know, Cullen. I trust you.”

She didn’t need to look up, she heard his smile in his voice. “Anyway,” he said, coughing, “Cassandra usually tells one of us to write back to one of your party members to remind you to eat and sleep.”

“I’m not a child,” she replied obstinately, but inside her chest was warming. It felt good to have so many people who actually cared about her. People who _noticed_ when something was wrong and kept her privacy.

“I know, a child would tell us when something was wrong.” His tone was joking but she could hear the hurt right behind his words.

“I’m sorry for not seeing you when I got back, I just… I had to find out _more_ before I went to see you.” She pressed a thick kiss to his shoulder. “I’ve never been good at moderation.”

“I know, Clara. Do you want to talk about it?” He brought their hands and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, her heart swelling with affection at the simple action. She loved everything about him _so much_ it hurt. Her chest was always tight and her throat was thick with those words she didn’t know how to say to him. She didn’t feel hollow anymore; it was like all those other things she used to feel got replaced by how deeply she cared for him. She wanted to make him just as happy as he made her and it _killed_ her that he was so sweet.

“Not right now.” Another kiss to his shoulder. “With Solas and Dagna.” She pulled herself more into his lap and leaned into the crook of his shoulder. “Don’t you have to drill the soldiers this morning?”

“It’s their day off.”

“Is it yours too?”

Another smile tugged at his lips. “It never is.”

“A day off won’t kill you, Cullen.”

“Josephine might,” he replied with a short laugh. She grinned into his neck, squeezing his fingers in hers. “Besides I couldn’t just do _nothing_ all day, I’d lose it.”

“You make a fair point. Nearly everytime I see you you have your face in a report.” Her lips grazed the side of his jaw and he groaned, Clara humming out her own personal victory.

His grip tightened on her hands before he released them and starting moving her off of him. She huffed momentarily but let him free, climbing off the bed and standing in the pale morning light in her shift. The air was frosty and the papers on her desk fluttered in the breeze from the open window.

She moved to go and shut it, jumping when she felt Cullen come up behind her and his arms wrap around her waist. It was a tight hug, his face in the crook of her shoulder as he squeezed her. Her own hands batted at his so he’d release her so she could _face_ him. He loosed up and she turned, her own arms wrapping around his neck as she pulled herself up to him.

This was what she loved most, though, about him. That emotional connection she felt was amplified by the physical closeness she had with him. Holding him felt better, made her feel like everything wasn’t as dire as it probably was. They always melted into each other, both of them warming until it wasn’t about the Inquisition anymore. It was just _them_.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and she remembered those fast words she had coaxed out of Cole upon handing him a finger trap to distract his hands. _Safe and solid, protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him._ She tightened her grip on him, the both of them swaying slightly as she tried to get taller so she could rest her head on his shoulder. The confirmation that she held him together just as much as he did her melted that last piece of her, picked those remaining icicles off of her ribcage. Foreign fuzzy warmth spread out from her chest and she sighed into his shirt, his own arms locked tight around her back.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she murmured, looking up to face him.

He pressed a small, quick, searing kiss to her lips and tightened his grip for a second before relaxing. “See me at noon, too. I’ll take a break.”

That little tugging smile he had undid her everytime he pulled it and he knew it. She just nodded, a small smile of her own flashing up at him.

* * *

 

It was still painfully early when he left her room, buckled and strapped into that armor. The sun had still only cleared a bit of the mountains, the sky a bright grey rippling with gold. Clara had watched him rattle down her stairs, a sigh ripping itself out as he left. She had straightened up and dressed herself, pulling the tangles out of her hair and wrapping it up in a tight bun before she gathered all of the books and bits of paper she had written on and dragged them to Solas.

He found it interesting, but he surmised that his knowledge of darkspawn and such wasn’t extensive enough to really be much of a help. His brows furrowed as he listened to her connect the Fade and lyrium, promising to look into that if she wished. She asked him to and she collected her things again, this time going to Dorian.

He was a bigger help than Solas, surprisingly. He had a certain fondness for books and ridiculous theories that made him readily accept what she was saying and immediately debate it.

“You know, if you really want this researched and tested you should talk to Leliana and have her set her team on it,” he pointed out as he scanned one of the documents.

“You think they could make any headway?” Clara picked up a book from the pile she had thrown down haphazardly and looked at the cover. It was a small volume documenting abnormalities in the Fade witnessed by the Senior Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle in the Towers Age.

“Well you did feed Alexius to them months ago. If he hasn’t been chewed up by now, he _is_ extremely brilliant and could probably provide some insight.” He placed the paper down and laced his fingers together in his lap, a winning smile spreading over his face.

“You have such a way with words,” she muttered as she rolled her eyes, but it _was_ a good idea. Though, the man had nearly ripped a hole in time itself and would need to be even more heavily supervised than he was now. Clara stood and slammed the book down, a cloud of dust kicking up. “I’ll go tell Leliana right away.”

“You’re going right now?”

“I’ll be right back, don’t be such a child.”

She heard the tail end of his complaint as she dashed up the stairs, notes clutched in her hands. Leliana took them and read them over, nodding to herself as her brows furrowed in concern and concentration. She called a woman over and handed her the documents, instructing her to look into what the Inquisitor had outlined. Leliana thanked her, nodding at Clara and turning back to her papers.

The Inquisitor left, chest feeling oddly light as she turned and looked out the window. It was bright and cold outside, the sun shining high in the white sky. Remembering Cullen in his stuffy office, she nearly ran down the steps, passing Dorian with a quick _Be right right back!_ as she tried to get to the Commander.

He smiled at her when she stumbled into his office, whole face bright and beautiful. “It’s a little past noon, but I’ll let it pass.”

“You’ll let it pass?” she asked lightly, coming to sit on the arm of his chair. “How very generous of you, Commander.”

He stood and pulled her closer, arms tightening around her as he lifted her into a hug. She wrapped her own arms around him, a yelp of surprise slipping out as the tips of her boots scraped against the floor. He was so _tall_ , he was standing straight up and she was pulled to his height while her feet dangled uselessly.

“I was hoping you’d stop by, Clara,” he said into the skin of her neck, voice muffled and breath warm.

“I wanted to see you,” she replied, spitting out the fur of his collar that had snuck into her mouth. “Cullen, put me down.”

He released her and she landed down heavily, a slight stumble that he caught. She was looking up into his face, _Maker_ , were his eyes beautiful. There was that raw happiness there again, thick stubble and slight bags under his eyes and she _ached_ with how much she adored him. Hands on her elbows and her own on his shoulders, she pressed down and he complied, bending so she could kiss him. It was heavy, both of their mouths opening as they groaned at each other, hands tightening their grips as they pulled together. Distantly, she wished his armor was off so she could get closer, but this was fine for now. So long as he was there to hold onto, she was _fine_.

She pushed him off of her, stomach clenched in anticipation as he looked at her with heavy eyes. “I should let you get back to work,” she said quietly, but she still leaned up and brushed her lips against his jaw the way they both liked.

His answering hum of approval had her smiling. She had never smiled so much, before she met him. She rather liked how easy it felt now. “You can be a distraction,” he admitted, his own lips trailing down her neck, teeth following as he tried to leave a mark so others would _see_.

“I’ll see you later,” she said but the words didn’t have weight to them. One of her hands fisted in his hair so she could press him harder against her, the other gripping at the plates of his armor.

“I know,” he said against her throat and she could feel the words reverberating under her skin. He nipped at that spot she loved again, teeth harsh and she was sure a bruise was going to be there. She gasped at the feeling and he laughed, just _pleased_ with himself.

“You’re _horrible_ ,” Clara said breathlessly as he pulled away, hand still fisted in his hair.

He was smiling at her, that same half-smirk he always pulled when he was looking at her. The heavy look in his eyes, the set of his mouth, the way his fingers gently replaced his hair in her grasp, he knew what it all did to her.

Then again, she knew what _she_ did to _him_. His breathing hitched when she grabbed at his hips, the way her lips brushed over his scar, how she held his thick wrists in her long fingers. It all killed him the same way he killed her.

“You want to go for a walk?” he offered, gloved hand rubbing those wonderful soothing circles over the skin on the back of her hand.

She pecked his lips. “It couldn’t hurt.”

They walked out along the battlements, late afternoon sun beating out the cold air as they circled around the broken cobblestones. Her fingers brushed his as they moved and talked, a small smile on each of their faces, completely horrible at hiding how badly they wanted to hold hands. It was still that giddy rush of excitement at being together, the raw emotion that held them. That constant need for contact, the urge to be touching at all times, it was almost consuming. Clara _loved_ the way she felt in his arms; she was more sure, calmer, more at ease with herself and how she felt. She was peaceful, comforted in the arms of the _ex_ -Templar.

He kissed her again when they got to that same spot she had stammered out her feelings all those weeks ago. It was slow and sweet and she held his face in hers as he held her hips against him. His stubble scratched under her nails, thicker than it had been the day before. The way his fingers gripped her said everything about how tightly he wanted to pull her against him and she shivered, mouth opening into the kiss.

She _loved_ kissing him out here, and he had admitted much the same during one of their nights lying on his couch. It was a thrill that others would _know_ about them. The details were private, but kissing her Commander in front of the courtyard sent a certain thrill through her. These meetings against the balustrades were sweeter, short snippets of rushed affections while those nights in his office were made of razor-sharp kisses and heated fingers on flushed faces.

He went back to his work after he kissed her breathless on the battlements, all lovely smile and beautiful eyes. Clara returned to the library with Dorian, her footsteps light and an easy smile on her face. That warm feeling was still in her chest, her stomach fluttering whenever she reached up and touched that place on her neck where he had kissed her until she'd had a mark.

“You have a thing for strapping young templars, I see,” Dorian said as she walked over. He was all smug looks and smirks looking at her as he leaned against a bookcase, novel in hand.

She took her hand down from her neck and narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked icily, blush crawling up her neck. That horrible Nevarran romance novel sprung into her mind, and she blushed even harder as she made the connection.

“Oh nothing,” he said dismissively, _infuriating_ smirk still in place. “Just something I find adorable about you.”

She made a noise at him, halfway between a scoff and a noise of disgust while he chuckled. “You’re a despicable person,” she half-hissed, feeling her neck again, that bite mark Cullen had left tender under her fingers.

“Oh, calm down,” he replied, chuckling. He closed the book and straightened up. “All of Skyhold can see you two kissing up there.”

 _I know, and it’s wonderful but you’re not supposed to_ say _anything_. “If you have anything to say, just get it out now,” she said instead, assuming a stance to indicate she was ready for whatever he could pull out to embarrass her.

“I’m happy for you,” he said sincerely, unexpectedly, slowly.

“That’s… not as bad-- _no_ smart comment, really?” Clara blinked at him, confusion spreading through her. She could think of dozens of things he could have said, each one more crude and derogatory than the last. She had expected the worst and he was _happy_ for her. Having friends was still so new to her, she often forgot she didn't have to assume the worst of everyone. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, a small reminder that she didn’t _have_ to be so judgmental anymore.

“I could give you one, if you’d really like,” he offered, switching gears from her sincere friend back to the sarcastic library mouse.

“No, I’m good,” she said quickly. “Thank you, Dorian.”

He cleared his throat, bronze skin darkening as he flushed slightly. “Let’s get back to what we were doing then, shall we?”

Clara smiled at him, warm and wide. “That’s fine with me.”

She stayed with Dorian for most of the day, going through her paperwork while he read and complained about the low caliber of Ferelden wine. It was easy talk, a small distraction that was more background noise than an actual hindrance to her work. He knew how to talk to her, the best way to speak so she’d smile at him or laugh. He was her very _dearest_ friend, and she got something like that same warmth in her chest from just being around him. The same feeling she got around Cole when she watched him hover around the nurses, when Cassandra’s face softened as she looked at pilgrims, the reminder of what she was fighting for. It was the feeling she got when Cullen rested his forehead against hers, the small smile on his lips and in his eyes, how _happy_ he looked when she confessed something about him that she adored.

Clara visited Vivienne before she went to see Cullen, assuring her that they would be moving for the Exalted Plains in two days. Vivienne was excited but still just as cryptic. Clara walked away, allowing her to have this secret. She was a good friend and she trusted her, the lack of suspicion strange, but not unwelcome. After years of never being able to have a secret, Clara was letting Vivienne keep this.

Cullen’s office was small and warm, but dark when she entered. He wasn’t behind his desk and her heart dropped at the sight, book he had given her so long ago clutched in her fingers. Her gut dropped lower than she thought it would. Hands suddenly too cold, she flexed them anxiously, thinking for a reason he would stand her up. Perhaps he was sleeping, it was late and she was always on him to get more rest.

She climbed up the ladder to his room for the first time, hesitating slightly before she craned her neck over the lip of the ledge.

The room was extremely orderly with a wide, red bed and a nightstand, accompanied by a bookshelf and plush chair. She finished climbing all the way up, the room lit well by the moonlight bleeding in from the gaping hole in his ceiling, examining his possessions. A painting, books more of a recreational nature, a small array of candles, old letters that she left alone in respect of his privacy. It was more personal up here.

“He’s going to freeze to death,” she murmured as she examined the hole. A pile of rubble was off to the side and leaves crunched under her feet, a few twigs from the encroaching tree scattered across the floorboards. She walked over to his bed and hesitated before she pressed a hand down on it. It was softer than she thought it was going to be, but it wasn’t near as comfortable as the feather mattress in her quarters. Not only that, it didn’t look _long_ enough to fit him, like he’d have to lie diagonally to fit properly on the bed. A small smile broke at that thought, but it fell out along with the bottom of her stomach as she caught herself imagining her stretched along beside him on the bed.

Blushing furiously, she stepped away and climbed down the ladder, hands shaking as images of him pressed up against her flashed in her head, those clothes he always kept on, off for once. It was far too warm in the room, her own face burning hotly. She rubbed at her scar anxiously, trying to press how _good_ he would feel out of her head, gut clenching tightly at the thought. Those hands she adored skimming up her thighs, past her stomach to cup her breasts, his hips rolling with her own, his _eyes_ as he looked at her clutching at him--

She coughed loudly, crushing those thoughts down as she fell heavily into the love seat. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a few times, restless and wanting _something_. Book still clutched in her hand, she opened it and tried to focus but the words swam in front of her as snippets played in her head. Searing skin pressed together as he mouthed her neck, the weight of him on top of her as she sucked in shallow breathes, her own eyes hazy and unfocused as she breathed his name.

She laid back on the couch, trying to ignore the fluttering in her gut as she pressed her eyes into her skull. The back of her head ached and her legs were tingling and she just wished he’d come back from wherever he had went. The rational half of her not currently imagining him twisted around her screamed that he was probably in a meeting, his life didn’t revolve around her. That other half though, the one that wanted nothing more than for those beautiful calloused hands to hold her against him so  _tightly_ , refused to listen to reason. Sleep consumed her eventually, miraculously, surprisingly considering how worked up she had made herself.

It was fitful like those old dreams had been, but markedly less innocent. Those searing kisses and razor-sharp touches were all over her, those lovely Ferelden brown eyes hooded as she drowned in that lyrium burn and armor polish haze. She had so much more to work with now and her mind ran with it, conjuring up the most painfully _wonderful_ things. It left her with that ache in her chest and gut just like before and twice as intense.

Clara woke up with a start as Cullen shook her awake.

“I’m sorry, I meant to send a message but the meeting went on longer than I thought it would,” he said quietly in the burned-out candlelight of the room.

She blinked up at him hazily, dreams still flitting around her field of vision as she tried to register that the Cullen in front of her was completely dressed. “What meeting?” she croaked out, neck and back aching from her position on the couch.

“It was about troop movements in the Western Approach,” he replied, moving her legs so he could sit. He lifted them and then placed them on his lap, tugging her into sitting on his legs as easily as if she weighed nothing.

“I need to go there,” she replied, caught up in the feeling of his legs under her. “We started receiving strange reports.”

He nodded, one of his hands tugging her hair out of its bun. “We should wait until more information comes in from Leliana’s spies first.” He took his gloves off and his hand immediately went to her hair, fingers running through the red strands and over that thick scar.

“I’ve read the reports,” Clara replied, wrinkling her nose. “All sand and extremely hot.”

“It _is_ a desert.”

She brushed the tip of her nose against his, their foreheads leaning together. “Nothing ever happens in a moderate climate.”

“You wouldn’t have anything to complain about then,” he murmured, his eyes sliding shut.

She sought one of his hands with her own, taking the one that was holding her by the hip. Their fingers weaved together easily, his hard calloused hands a stark contrast from her soft ones. Years of hardship and training were written hard in his knuckles while hers had a lifetime of soft privilege scrawled over her palms. His thumb brushed over her mark, a long, raised slash that made her skin tingle at his contact.

They stayed like that on his couch, curled around each other, soft touches and murmured words enough for now. It wasn’t what Clara wanted, wasn’t burning as hotly as those dreams of him had been, but it was enough. She was still new enough to this level of physical intimacy that she was terrified of complicating it further, no matter how badly she wanted to. Lovers in the Circle had been different from him, boys she had pushed away from herself as soon as they were done, distaste and finality written on her face as she avoided having to speak with them. Not friends or even _truly_ a fling, they were different from that. Clandestine fumbling in dark corners pressed in by the bookcases and heavy walls, they had been a means to an end, a few steps better than struggling alone in her bed in the apprentice quarters. No privacy or intimacy for fourteen years and now here she was with Cullen. Not a Templar anymore, never even truly _like_ those Templars she had feared for so long, she was completely willing to catch up on all those years of missing hugs and fervent kisses with him. It was something they both needed.

Two days passed, each night again plaguing her with those ideas of what he would feel like if he weren’t so innocent with her. It felt like she was going to explode every time she woke up. Breathing slowly to calm down, trying to stop the way her skin _burned,_ she had to resist running to his office and throwing herself at him. She felt _ridiculous_.

That third day she moved out for the Exalted Plains, giving him a fast goodbye and a small note she had written that said what she couldn’t in front of the soldiers. It was a fine game they played, that semblance of privacy when the entirety of Skyhold knew they held each other at night. It was like that trashy Nevarran romance novel, though she was a little frightened at how applicable it actually was. However, she liked to think she had the common sense and proper grasp of language not to refer to intimate parts using the word _fleshy_ at all. And flower symbolism was ridiculous with the side effect of making her extremely uncomfortable.

The Exalted Plains were easier to get to this time, a well-worn path having been stomped by refugees and the Inquisition’s own agents. Five days of travel with Cassandra, Cole, and Vivienne and they made it to Ghilan-nain’s Grove, a large, boggy clearing with angry stinging insects and even angrier wyverns. They objected quite vehemently when the Inquisitor attempted to slay them, many of the slithering beasts crawling out of the honeycombed caves to scream their disapproval.

They proved easy to kill, but their numbers made for a particularly harrowing encounter. Cole was knocked over and nearly savaged, had Vivienne not thrown a barrier up at the last moment. The enchanter herself was nearly as unstoppable as Cassandra, both women slashing through the glorified lizards until they were nothing but ribbons and steaming entrails.

Clara ended up killing the snowy wyvern herself, however, the creature drawn to her. As if sensing that fine haze of frost magic that clung to her, it launched itself, barely daunted by the reaching spikes of ice Clara had sprouting from it. It met a swift end at her spirit blade, the heavy hilt clutched tightly in her throbbing hand. The heart was cut out and subsequently stored in the box she had brought, still warm and bleeding when it was sealed away.

There were a few Fade rifts nearby, the mark on Clara’s hand throbbing in time as the Veil tore with each beat of her heart. They were sealed with little difficulty, the slipping strands of magic zipped back up while the demon corpses dissolved into the murky water. Spotting one of those ancient elven artifacts Solas spoke of, the team made their way over to it, Clara intent on activating it and then leaving for camp to soothe her bug bites and poison burns.

So, when the dragon decided to appear, it was not only uncalled for, it was downright _rude_.

Loud and electric, it was a dangerous fight. Cassandra was that fine wall between Clara and death again, though the Inquisitor managed to not get stomped again. Burns from the singing water laced up her legs and arms from when she had fallen in, her bones aching as it finally went down. Cassandra followed Clara closely, her feet right behind the Inquisitor’s heels as she pulled her out of the way of the collapsing dragon. Clara was grateful for her, for her warm concern behind her shield and sunburst breastplate, for her want to protect.

They stayed seven more days in the Plains, all full of scampering around the burning fields and running down demons and Venatori. Marked caches, the golden halla, glimmering runes that sang something just below her level of hearing, and those _letters_ from Cullen.

He made her chest ache with how clear it was how much he adored her. His concern was wonderful, recognition she craved from him. So sweet and honest with her, he had her heart breaking from it. The reports that came in with her letters read that he was still the Commander, efficient and pragmatic, but those lovely words he wrote to her about how much he missed her hands, her lips, her familiar presence showed that flipside of him she adored. He was that caring man who looked at her with his lovely eyes and held her close.

The eighth morning in the Plains, she woke up having hardly slept from the anticipation of travel. It took seven days to return back to Skyhold, nearly eight, torrential rain turning the dirt into mud so their mounts had to slog through the sopping ground at a grindingly slow pace. The days were torture, a kind of cold soaking to the bone that left her shivering into the night, too freezing to be pleasant. Her burns rubbed uncomfortably under her sodden clothing, the fabric of the bandages stuck to the intensely hot abrasions, screaming whenever she peeled them off to change them. At night she dreamed of Cullen’s warm, _dry_ office.

They finally made it back the night of the seventh day of travel. Still soaked, it hadn’t let up even as they approached. Clara dismounted, burns twisting as she climbed down from her horse. She was _tired,_ the fatigue of travel wearing down on her severely but she wanted to see Cullen, show him she had made it back in one piece. Feet aching, she grabbed one of the pages who was running around, carrying messages to and from the returning soldiers and told him to bring her robe and a new set of clothes to her room. He jumped like a rabbit, off like a shot to retrieve what she had asked.

Retiring her horse, Clara sighed and rubbed her eyes as she walked to her room, reminding herself to thank him. Her legs ached as she ascended all of the _stairs_ , why were there so many stairs here? The articles she had asked for were on her bed, the page nearly running into her as she climbed the wooden stairs to her quarters on shaking legs. She managed to force out a thanks that only seemed to frighten him more and she softened, placing her hand gently on his shoulder and saying it again, quietly and with more feeling. He took it, looking less like he was about to pass out, and left.

Clara changed quickly, her shaking arms making it hard to peel off the bandages, but she managed, coughing a few times to give herself a chance to breathe. Her arms, legs, and one large swathe over her stomach and back were burned, but not as badly as they had been right after fighting that dragon. Still, they lingered, uncomfortable and itchy and painful if she turned the wrong way.

She finished dressing and her gaze lingered on her bed. She wanted to sleep _so badly_ , but the want to see Cullen was stronger than the desire to rest. The walk to his office was long, her knees shaking and muscles tired, a fresh wave of rain pelting her as she took the walkway from Solas’s room to Cullen’s office.

Knocking once, she entered quickly, turning and shutting the freezing rain outside, her forehead resting against the door.

“Clara! I thought you’d gone to bed.” He sounded surprised, his arms immediately around her from behind.

Clara squirmed out of his grasp, sharp pain from the burns on her stomach shooting through her. “I wanted to see you,” she said breathlessly, rubbing around the bandages on her midsection.

“It’s so late,” he replied, face concerned. His hands hovered over her hips, fingers splayed and unsure how to touch her. “Are you still hurt?”

She nodded. “Electricity burns last a long time. There shouldn’t be any scars though.” She took his hands and settled them on her hips, her body leaning lightly onto his. “I need to sit before I collapse.”

He hurried and pulled her towards the couch, allowing her to position herself in his lap. “Where can I touch you?” he asked, face turning slightly pink as he cleared his throat.

 _Everywhere_. “Just not my stomach,” she said, lifting her shirt enough to show him the heavy bandage.

He pulled her in more closely, arms pulling her against the metal of his armor, careful of her stomach. “I missed you,” he said into her hair.

“I missed you too,” she breathed, eyes squeezing shut as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “How have your headaches been?”

“It was bad two days ago, but I’m better now.” His face moved down to the crux of her neck where he breathed in deeply and heaved a heavy sigh.

“Do you want me to ice you?” she offered, too tired to find a better way to say it.

“You’d freeze your fingers off if you did it now,” he said, voice caught between a laugh and reproach.

One of her hands buried itself in his hair, tugging lightly. “I’m not so cold now that I’m in here.”

“Your clothes are still wet, however.”

“You can’t have it all.”

She could feel his grin against her neck. It was wide and had her smiling as well, all twisted up in his arms like she was. _Maker_ , she had missed him. He was warm even through the armor, and that comforting lyrium thrum had her sighing and leaning into his embrace.

“Are you alright?” he asked, lips brushing against her shoulder, nose pushing her shirt collar aside.

She bent her head back to give him better access, a shudder ripping through her at the feeling of his lips on her skin, _three weeks_ of missed contact right there under his mouth. “I want you to kiss me,” she said with more force than she had intended, his hands on her hips gripping her more tightly as he groaned.

He kissed a fast, hot trail up her neck, his teeth following every other press until he got to her mouth where he kissed her properly. A strangled moan ripped itself out of her, muffled by his mouth over hers, the sound sudden and all she could _think_ about was the way his lips moved with hers. She shifted herself in his lap so she was straddling him, a frantic heat bleeding out under her skin as her hips pressed closer to him.

He broke the kiss off, stubble grating against her face as she sucked in a breath, burns screaming. She pressed her mouth to his face, not kissing him just trying to collect herself. Prying her eyes open, she looked up at him, hands cupping his face as she brushed her nose over his cheek.

 _“Maker,”_ he breathed, face flushed.

“I missed you so much,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut, voice breaking with emotion.

He pulled in a few more breaths, breastplate pressing against her uncomfortably but she didn’t _care_. “I hate it when you leave,” he confessed, pressing his lips into her shoulder again.

She shuddered, hips pressing forward again, rocking slightly in his lap. “I hate not seeing you for weeks. I miss kissing you, and I miss holding you, and I miss your laugh, and I _hate_ it when you’re not there when I go to sleep at night.”

He kissed her on the lips again, long and searing, rough as their teeth clacked together. He was trying to kill her, there was no other reason for the way he kissed her, all lovely mouth and firm hands. She could die kissing him, forget to breathe and that would be the end of it. Clara figured there were worse ways to die.

“I miss your lips,” he murmured against them. “I miss your freckles,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I miss your hands.” He took a hand off her hips and grabbed one of the ones she had on his face, pressing a thick kiss to her palm. “I miss _you_ ,” he whispered, lips brushing over her scar.

Her forehead leaned against his, her breathing erratic as she tried to calm down. They were like that for perhaps two hours, grinding together softly and whispering what they wanted while the other was away, until Clara’s exhaustion overtook her. He walked her to her own quarters that night, holding her tightly and mindful of her burns as he pressed a kiss to her lips one last time under the eaves to her room.

She slept alone that night, dreams easy and not heavy with what he would _feel_ like. The next morning, she gave the heart to Vivienne and was invited to come and see what she meant to do with it. One two day trip to her lover’s death bed, and Clara was pained with feeling for Vivienne. A lot of herself was reflected in the other mage: the brutal efficiency, unwillingness to give up, that softer side she turned to when her loved ones were at stake. It cleared her vision, peeled away those layers of fear for who she had been and who she had become.

So when Leliana approached her when she returned with Vivienne, she didn’t hesitate in reading the report right there. It was unusual activity in the Western Approach with an addendum from Warden Stroud that _this_ was what he was talking about and a note from Hawke that indicated she was eager to get off her ass and do something. Clara didn’t waste any time deliberating and went to gather them, along with Blackwall, Varric, and Cassandra, and telling them to Saddle up, they were moving out in twenty.

Cullen was in his office, the sun high in the sky as she gave him a goodbye kiss. He sounded sad when she said _Western Approach_ and _five weeks, at the least_ , but he took it. He understood her duties and how they took her away from him, just as she understood his and his position.

The travel to the Approach took two weeks of Varric hiding from Cassandra and Blackwall avoiding Stroud. The place itself was large, hot, and sand was constantly in every crevice of her armor. It crunched between her teeth and gave her rash burns on her feet, her face blasted rough with the sand that kicked up with the wind. Even after she retook the fortress, she was still shaking sand out of her hair, her armor, her _socks_.

It was a miserable place, made even more horrible by the ritual blood magic she encountered at the crumbling holdfast.

After seeing the Venatori magister, Clara’s anger reared up whip-fast at having to even _speak_ with him. He was everything she hated, everything she had been taught to hate, everything that old Templar with the cold steel sword thought she had been. Hate didn’t even begin to encompass what she felt when she watched him run, couldn’t cover how badly she wanted to see him on the end of her stave as she rode all the way back to Skyhold, wasn’t able to hold how she felt when she scheduled to attack on Adamant Fortress for two weeks.

The time went quickly as well, two weeks of frantic drills and preparation and marching out to the sands of the Western Approach. Little time was left for Clara to steal away to Cullen’s room or tent and hold him at night, and she could feel herself hardening as she anticipated storming the old Warden castle.

The night the siege began, she gathered Blackwall, Varric, and Cole and entered the burning fortress through the battered iron doors. Cullen caught her at the last moment before she ran through to find Erimond. A quick report and a _be safe_ were given to her, and she returned with her own wish that he didn’t take risks. Neither could agree to what the other had asked.

She wanted to kiss him before she lept forward, but she didn’t. Now wasn’t the time. She was half-afraid of what should would taste on his lips right now, smoke and steel and battle, or fear and worry? It would have been too much, so she left without.

Clearing the battlements, saving soldiers, Cole’s soft voice whispering _we saved them_ pushed her forward until she saw Clarel and an elven girl she recognized. Long and thin and soaked, she was the girl from Crestwood, begging to help before she collapsed onto the stonework, blood spilling out and painting the bricks red for another demon to be pulled through.

Demons, demons, demons, it never _ended_. Even as Clara watched Clarel fall to Corypheus’ archdemon, she could still hear the screams and shrieks of terrors and abominations flying up from the battlements below. The Warden-Commander, torn nearly in half, slippery intestines spilling out as she tried to fix what she had done even a little bit and as she _failed_ , it was too much, that screaming voice in the back of Clara’s head telling to _get out_.

But she didn’t have time for that, the floor fell out and she was pulled into the Fade, everything too sharp and yet out of focus, the air hurting to breath and her magic too easy to use, too easy to feel, too easy to pull towards her. Cole nearly screaming as he registered that this Fade was _wrong_ , too real, too corporeal, too… _everything_.

Clara moved through quickly, setting nightmares aside and resisting the urge to vomit every time one of those massive spiders crawled over. Years of terror were in those flashing eyes and scuttling legs, childhood fears and adult hate bleeding together as she stomped them out, disgust and horror roiling in her gut. The Nightmare called out those deep fears everyone kept pressed down for all to hear, those secrets that they should’ve been allowed to keep. Blackwall was a different man now, Cole was not a demon, Varric did not doom his city.

They were all open, but it saved Clara’s fears for inside her skull, ringing out as they were ticked off. Fear of her _family, blood magic, Templars, failing, something horrible happening to the friends she had painstakingly carved out of nothing, all of her fears about Cullen--_

In the end, it fell at the blade on her stave, weakened by all of those secret terrors and closed despair everyone held too closely for it to grasp at. The new _old_ memories swimming around behind Clara’s eyes as she recalled why this different Fade had seemed so familiar. It was new weight to carry, another burden on her sagging shoulders. Haven, The Conclave, her brother, All of those people she couldn’t save, and then Stroud throwing himself onto the pile as he cleared the way for them to escape.

Stumbling out into the real world, the rift sealing behind her, she sucked in lungfuls of air, relieved to be on solid ground again. The Wardens joined the Inquisition, shame written on the faces of the survivors as they accepted this branch of redemption. Hawke, full up on excitement and denial of suicidal purpose, vowed to journey to Weisshaupt and inform the First Warden personally of what had happened. Clara wished her luck, privately; the Champion was a pain in her ass, and so long as she was anywhere _but_ Skyhold, she would sleep more easily. Disaster seemed to follow the woman.

That night, as they camped and the Wardens were herded together for observation, Clara gave into her itching feet and heavy conscience. She found Cullen’s tent, smaller than her own, but it had the added benefit of _him_ being there, and threw her arms around him, a shudder and dry sob pulling themselves out as she told him she didn’t want to be alone that night. He accepted her easily, arms a wide invitation to get lost in the lyrium thrum and warm comfort that she _needed_. His embrace felt like it kept her together right there, holding her in with all of her new memories and unwanted burden. He was _hers_ ; it was written in the way he held her, how his hands soothed up her back, how he let her cling to him all night, how he didn’t care who saw her enter his tent and not leave.

It was soft in his bedroll, this wall of heat pressing her together as he held her. No nightmares that night either, surprisingly, just gentle dreams of how grateful she was for him, how much he accepted her, freckles and faults and all. Right there, falling asleep cradled against his chest, it wasn’t hard to think about how much she loved _him_ , entirely, not just his hands or his eyes or his honesty. Him, Cullen, _ex_ -Templar and his fevered kisses and strong heart beating in her ear as she pressed her love into herself, her own secret revelation she wasn’t willing to part with. Not here, not now, not in the cold desert night while blood still seeped into the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's out! I'd really like some feedback on this one, I'm still pretty shaky on how their relationship is flowing, so thanks for everything in advance.


	12. Que mes baisers sont les mots d'amour que je ne te dises pas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No_. “Riding does tire me.” She crawled up towards the head of the bed and began pulling the blankets loose. He started helping her and soon they were both under the covers, his face pressed into the crux of her shoulder. She could feel the ghost of his breath over the tops of her breasts through the thin fabric. His stubble scratch was familiar and even calming, something that was so explicitly _Cullen_. Her arms were around him and she could feel the way his breathing eased as he relaxed into the embrace, his muscles coming loose as that tension he always carried melted off. It was all strikingly domestic.

It took nearly three weeks to return back to Skyhold. Bogged down with the extra Wardens and prisoners, it was  slow going and grated on Clara, fraying her beyond words. Those new memories from the Nightmare pooled down in her and made her feet heavy, it was hard to ride or walk or think. She had always been unsure if she was truly picked by Andraste, but there was that small spark of hope in the back of her head. It was selfish, a little piece of belief that this was all happening for a reason, she survived that blast, got buried under a mountain, was a beacon of hope for so many people because she had _purpose_ beyond what she could control.

Still, at the end of the day, she was just the upjumped Circle mage with a fear of spiders and failure.

At Skyhold, it was louder, but no one bothered her much. It was a week she needed to rest after the siege and the long trek back. Too many people expressed their gratitude for freeing them, helping them, killing them. It was like Haven all over again, the devout thanking her for the blood splattered up to her elbows. It was unwelcome, unneeded, unnecessary and she just wanted to _sleep_.

Eight days after she came back from Adamant, it got better. She had visited Cullen every night, but they were always short and closed off. He seemed a bit distant, but she wasn’t exactly together herself. She could begrudge him a few distant looks and pensive eyes as they held each other. He withstood her newfound coldness, that old chill creeping back into her blood, the only difference being this time she didn’t _want_ to shut him out. She was still weeding through how she felt about him but she was positive she couldn’t stand the thought of growing distant; _that_ would have been too much.

That eighth night, he’s behind his desk as usual, writing, writing, writing since they had returned. They were all notices of death to the soldiers lost at Adamant. Not as many as there could have been, but it was still too much.

“Hey,” Clara said quietly, knocking softly on the doorframe.

He looked up at her, face all dark purple smudges and thick beard and tired eyes that broke her heart. “That time again?” he asked with a smile, but it didn’t hit his eyes.

She walked up to his desk and looked at him from across it. “You haven’t been sleeping well,” she said, voice flat.

“I haven’t been sleeping much at all,” he replied as he leaned back, away from his desk. His gloves were off, his fingers stained heavily with ink and those names he had to write down.

Clara walked around and stood next to him, hesitating slightly before she climbed onto the chair with him. She settled into his lap easily, his arms coming around her as she grabbed his hands, not caring if she got ink on herself. She rubbed her thumbs into his palms, Cullen groaning as she worked the cramped muscles. His eyes closed, head leaning on top of her own, his cheek pressed to the crown of her head.

“You can sleep in my room,” Clara offered, shifting her attention from one hand to the other.

He hummed low in his chest, the sound reverberating through his armor. “I don’t think tonight is the best time,” he said, voice tired.

“We haven’t… _napped_ together in a while,” she said, face reddening as she carefully chose her words.

“It’s been at most a week.”

_“A while.”_

He laughed, straightening up and running his free hand through his hair, his other arm pulling her tightly against him. “You’ve been distant.”

“Is something different?” she asked, not turning to look at him.

He let out a breath. “Between us?”

Clara nodded.

“Does it feel like something is?” His tone was questioning, the arm around her slackening, giving her to option to get up. She didn’t take it, instead curling more into his warm embrace.

“Yes,” she admitted against his breastplate. “But I want to talk about it.”

His arm came back around her, holding her to him. Sitting on him made her feel hazy and safe, that thrum of old lyrium in his bones so familiar to her now. Tall and strong, he made her feel _protected_ , not as hard as she was before. Telling him the truth wasn'y easy but she _loved it_ , reveled in that closeness she could get just by talking to him and not deflecting. To give him a piece of herself in her words, memories, thoughts, it meant so much more than what she was saying; he _cared_ about how she felt.

“You’ve been more distant since Adamant,” he murmured against her head, warm breath seeping into thick red hair

“I know,” she sighed, eyes slipping shut. “I just needed to… _decompress_.” The plates in his armor were hard and jammed into her uncomfortably, but she still pressed closer, tugging on his other arm so he’d hold her properly. She _needed_ to be in his embrace, she fed off of those small contacts and strong arms.

“You were upset when we asked you what happened,” he said. She could almost hear his eyes closing in the way his voice dropped, arms tightening and hands relaxing.

“I still told you what happened, though. I’ve been thinking about it, and I just… I’m so _unsure_ now, Cullen,” she said quietly in his mantle, eyes stinging. “I don’t know if I ever really believed I was the Herald of Andraste, but there was that shred of hope that maybe I _was_ , and now it’s gone.”

“I believe you are,” he said firmly, immediately, staunchly. His hands turned her so she was straddling him, arms holding her close. She was pressed up all along him, her own arms coming out from between them to wrap around his neck, armor polish and sweat and lyrium thrum singing in her lungs. They leaned their foreheads together, her eyes sliding shut from the warmth of him, the adoration and belief she felt in his arms calming her.

“I believe that you were put in that room at the Conclave for a reason,” he started, grip on her tightening. “I believe that the Maker puts all of us on a specific path and has a plan for it all.” There was a fervor behind his words, shaking in the air left behind. He _needed_ to believe this was all happening for a reason. He needed a reason that he was dealt his hand. The torture in Ferelden, the failures of Kirkwall piling up one on top of the other, there had to be a sense to the madness, a necessity to the suffering he’d been through. Even now, with those chains of old lyrium still dragging him down, he needed a reason for the bad memories staying and ringing around his eyes when he blinked.

“And what about Hawke and Stroud?” she asked, eyes still closed and voice snapping. “I had to _choose_ who would stay. Both were willing and I had to pick who would stay behind.”

“While the outcome is unavoidable,“ he said slowly, words measured and precise. “How we get there is our own choice.”

There was a memory behind his words. That face of determination at Haven as he was so ready to bury all of them instead of let the magister get them. The need for control over how he went after all of those other times he should have died, the need to not let Samson _win_. Cullen didn’t want to go down without a fight, he would do what needed to be done, that Ferelden honesty and military mindset had shaped him too much to let him not believe he was in control of his end.

“I’m just afraid it’s not that complicated; what if it’s as simple as Corypheus is a madman and needs to be stopped? What if there’s no grand scheme and the Maker’s gaze is still turned away? What if it was _never_ on us?” Clara sighed heavily and brought her hands up to cup his face. Hard stubble scratched her fingers, small and sharp, but it was familiar. There was something grounding about that rough feeling of his face in her palms.

“I don’t believe that, and you don’t either.”

He was right, to a point. Her family was devout, and she had been as well, growing up not speaking of the uncles whose portraits hung in her father’s solar. Those small paintings of the boys who had died like Jules had, forever twelve and thirteen in her family’s estate. Seventeen-years-old Adelise, stuck in that same permanent state of distress she always had, hanging between Lothaire and Ridella, the only two remaining true Trevelyans. Then came her and Jules, her own portrait still showing her as the freckled eleven-year-old, all pinafores and angry eyes, his own face locked in that perpetual state of surprise, blue eyes and black hair and tanned freckled skin. Each painting had the sunburst in them, a sign of devotion. The only one that had been different was Adelise, that burning sword of mercy placed by her own demand, a sign of her growing infatuation with Templars.

Oh, it had been such a _shame_ when she and Jules had turned out to be mages. A family much more devout than others, they were held fast by the need to prove that the stain of magic didn’t lessen the strength of their faith. Still, even in the Circle she had kept that small hope that the Maker was there, that her magic wasn’t a curse, this wasn’t meant as a _punishment_ for what she had. Magic had never been something she hated or loved, it was something about her, like her hands. It was matter-of-fact, an irreplacable part of who she was. She enjoyed it, the Maker’s _gift_ , magic was meant to serve man and never to rule over him, and it _never_ did. Even in the dead of night as she wandered around, restless legs and restless heart, clinking plate and mail, a sword falling down hard and fast, the spatter of blood on tiles and screams echoing around the basement, her magic had never been a risk.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she murmured, her hand rubbing at her scar reflexively as her eyes opened.

His hand came up and pulled her own away, grip tight as he swallowed thickly. “Months ago, when I wasn’t sure if I could still lead with the lyrium sitting in my desk, _you_ told me I didn’t need it.”

“And you still don’t. You’re not giving less, you’re making an _example--_ ”

“ _And_ now I can return it. I believe in you, in the good you’ve done. I know trials and how doubt feels. I've doubted before, did it for all of those years in Kirkwall. I’m still not proud of how I am, but I can make a difference here, and you _have_ been. I’m not worried you feel this way, especially after Adamant. It’s… you helped ease my doubt in what I’d done, and I want to do that for you too.”

Maker’s _breath_ , he was too sweet for her. There was bare honesty in his lovely brown eyes, the truth and belief in what he was saying shined through him. She loved him _so much_ it almost hurt. She wanted his hands all over her, wanted to hear him as she rolled her hips in his lap, but she needed those small touches and reassurances he gave her; she needed him to hold her, to help her feel less like the Inquisitor or the Circle mage or a Trevelyan. He made her feel like _Clara_ , not so cold but still _her_. Her heart couldn’t take this, it wasn’t meant to beat this way, not for him, not with that lyrium cloud nearly smothering her.

She pressed her lips to his, both of their eyes sliding shut at the kiss. It was slow and easy, a validation of those feelings she felt for him. She wasn’t desperately trying to get something from him; he gave to her freely, willingly, lovingly. She couldn’t picture him any differently, everything about him made her gut clench and her palms sweat. From his burning sincerity to his beautiful brown eyes to his sheer ability, it all killed her in the best way possible.

She wanted to ask him to sleep with her that night, but her courage failed her. He wanted her, she could tell by the way he moaned into her kisses and how his hips rolled with hers, each meeting they had growing less and less chaste. It was in the firm grip of his hands, the way he dragged her into his lap, the way his kisses tasted of possession and adoration.

So instead of bringing him into her quarters, she left him in the doorway to her room, wanting and tired. The offer for him to come in and just sleep still stood, but there seemed to be something between them that said it wouldn't just _be_ sleep, not now, not like this. It was hard to drift off without his arms around her, but she managed, her dreams stamped with his fingerprints all over her body. Her eyes opened with difficulty, that frustrated wanting still making her insides squirm. Legs aching, she managed to drag herself outside to see Cassandra. She needed to speak with someone whose faith was unshakable, but finding Cassandra hunched over her terrible smut novel wasn’t exactly what she had expected.

Clara felt for the Seeker, she did, honestly. It seemed that everything was conspiring to make her more embarrassed, from how Cole creeped out from behind the tavern to how Cassandra stumbled over her words as she begged the Inquisitor to muscle Varric into releasing another issue for her. This softer side of Cassandra had been hinted at all those months before. Her carefulness in handling Clara, the way she watched her, worried about her.

Cassandra waited by her training dummy while Clara walked to Varric, spirits lifting with each step. It was _deliciously_ mundane and human, the entire experience remarkably grounding, even as she informed Varric of his biggest fan. He agreed to update the serial that even _he_ accepted as complete garbage, and Clara waited in the library as he did it. Dorian questioned her as to the nature of what she was fetching, eyes sparkling with mischief as she informed him that Cassandra was more fond of cheesy smut literature than she herself was. He was appropriately surprised.

Varric found her as soon as he was finished, handing her the roughly bound copy with a shake of his head. “Give it a read over if you want before she gets it. If anythings wrong I don’t want to think of what she’ll _try_ to do to me.”

Clara rolled her eyes at him, but took the book anyway. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“I said it was trash,” he replied with a winning smile and a shrug.

The book truly _was_ terrible. Varric had a certain style of writing that provoked the desire to continue reading, but somehow left out any semblance of proper metaphor. It was like a shipwreck: devastating and horrible, but you couldn’t seem to look away.

 _“He locked eyes with her,”_ Clara read aloud as Varric sat there, watching her take in his latest monstrosity, _“staring as he deeply inhaled the aroma of her vagina.”_ She put the book down and rubbed her eyes, turning her head to look at the dwarf. “What gave you the idea that that would be good to write down?”

He grinned at her again, wide and long. “It’s good, isn’t it? It really fits the overall feel of the rest of the serial.”

She looked at him for a moment longer before picking it back up and flipping to a few pages previous. _"His muscles rippled under her fingertips like the crashing waves of the storm coast."_

He opened his hands in front of himself and shrugged. Clara made a noise of revulsion and shut the book. “Let’s just go give it to Cassandra,” she muttered, standing up and leaving the library, Varric following close behind.

As they neared Cassandra, Clara handed the dwarf the book, figuring if anyone was going to give this monstrosity away, it might as well be its creator. He grinned at _her_ , at the red-haired model on the cover, at Cassandra as murder flashed in her eyes. He was enjoying himself, and Clara had to admit she was as well. It was certainly something to witness Cassandra like this, practically foaming at the mouth for another trashy novel. It was good, extremely personal without any heavy emotions. A small slice of easy friendship that Clara so desperately needed in this crisis of faith.

She left Cassandra to her book, cringing inwardly as she opened it eagerly and began to read. She was an intelligent woman, and her genuine enjoyment of something so painfully terrible was lost on the Inquisitor. It was later in the day, not quite dinner yet but too late for lunch, and Clara contemplated stopping by Cullen to eat something. He was terrible about feeding himself, often going the entire day without eating until someone sent him something.

Clara wandered into the garden, intent on cutting her herbs and getting research going on her grenades, when Morrigan stopped her to show her the eluvian. It was a truly massive mirror with sides that opened outward as if it were a triptych altarpiece. Parts of it were scraped and dented, the thrum of old magic buzzing in the air around it.

When Morrigan pulled her inside, it was almost overwhelming.

The air there felt _wrong_ , like it had in the Fade. Clara’s feet itched to be anywhere but there, her eyes felt cold and too dry, the mist obscuring nearly everything past the thin, twisted trees and the other eluvians. Morrigan called it the _crossroads_ and it conveyed the feeling that this wasn’t a place you should stay in for too long. The fog felt too thick and liable to swallow a person up, choking and devastating should they wander out of the bounds of the reaching branches and iridescent mirrors.

She was dizzy when Morrigan pulled them out. Her eyes ached and her fingers were too thick, and she walked in a daze towards the main hall. She wasn’t quite sure where she was going to go anymore, she _wanted_ to see Cullen but perhaps she should ask Solas about the eluvian. He was sure to know something.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine called as Clara was crossing the hall.

Clara turned and rubbed her eyes, trying to get that fog out of them. “You need something, Josie?” she asked tiredly.

“Leliana asked me to remind you that we have prisoners awaiting judgement after Adamant,” she reminded her, taking short, fast steps as she approached. “A week in detainment is long enough, and many would like to see what you have decided for them.”

“Fine,” Clara groaned, hand rubbing at her temples instead. “Go call court and I’ll do it.”

* * *

 

Lord Erimond was a piece of work. He was still dressed in the robes the Inquisition had found him in. Stained silks and torn samite were all that clung to him now, along with the scent of a man who hadn’t washed in nearly two weeks. In all honesty, she would have preferred to just let him sit in his basement cell for the rest of his life, the overbearing hate she felt when she looked at him mounting into an even more heavy disgust. He was _pathetic_ , even more so than Alexius had been. He had _no idea_ that what he had almost accomplished would have destroyed everyone, and he didn’t even seem to care. His fanaticism seemed almost false at that point, the way he was desperately spitting his adoration for the darkspawn magister all he had left to cling to after such a defeat.

Killing him outright or letting him rot in his cell didn’t seem to have the desired effect on him, and Clara found herself missing that easy way she used to get a rise out of people. She was _desperate_ to get a reaction out of him, wipe that smug superiority off of his pallid face.

“A mage’s crimes, a mage’s punishment,” she announced, leaning on the arm of her throne, a hand coming up to flick him away. “Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, I deny you death. Tranquility.”

The terror that flashed across his face was delightful, something so basely satisfactory it drew a small, wicked smile on Clara’s face. He was dragged away, kicking and screaming, and she knew he would look _lovely_ with the brand on his forehead. She knew Tranquility, had spent more than half of her life in its company, knew so many who had been made tranquil instead of thrown into a Harrowing. She had been given that option herself, before her own Harrowing. Become Tranquil and live, undergo the Harrowing and either die or never have the Right hanging over her head anymore.

As the door slammed shut behind him, she knew he would have never lasted in a Circle.

Ser Ruth was another matter entirely. She had been one of those faceless knives lining the halls at Adamant. More blood was on her hands than Clara, and she had accepted that there were some stains that couldn’t be washed off. Guilt and sorrow weighed her words down, and Clara felt her heart thump in response to the Warden. She wanted atonement, something better than what she had been given. Humiliation, the Deep Roads, a cold dark hole for her to spend the rest of her natural life in, they were all places she could have gone.

Instead, she gave her forgiveness. It was within her rights to grant consolation and ease her conscience. Invoking the name of Andraste left a bad taste in her mouth, but it was worth it to see the way Ser Ruth’s face eased, absolution she hadn’t expected washing over her. She left the room a free woman and Clara watched her leave, heart stalwartly trying to climb up her throat. She had been kinder to the woman than she had intended, or even thought to be. It was another validation that she wasn’t that terrible woman who had fallen out of the Fade at the Conclave blast site anymore.

It was nearly night by the time the hall had been cleared. The moon was barely visible outside, the purpling sky casting heavy shadows on the battlements as she walked towards Cullen’s office. A slight breeze was blowing, the smell of dinner and elfroot carried along with it. It was pleasant on Clara’s overheated face.

Cullen’s office was darker than usual, many of the candles either having guttered out already or close to the end. He was standing by his desk, face thoughtful as he considered the books on his shelf.

“Want to get dinner?” Clara asked, breaking his concentration.

He turned and smiled. He was so _lovely_ she almost couldn’t breathe with the way he smiled at her. “Is it that time already?”

“Unless you ate without me already,” she said, walking up to him. “I could always go by myself.”

“I can spare the time to eat, I think.” He leaned down and kissed her, a hand on her elbow. His mouth slid easily with hers, lips wonderfully pliant and contrasting with the stubble that scratched at her face. She wrapped a hand into his hair, cracking the stiff curls and pressing him against her harder, that old dull ache beginning in her stomach again. She could’ve sworn she felt him smirking. He probably _was_ , too; he knew what effect he had on her.

“I meant _food_ ,” she said when he broke off. _“Dinner.”_

That smirk was on his face, like he was trying not to smile and failing. “I know what you meant,” he said, that smirk growing into another soft smile as he took one of her hands. “I’m just glad you came by.”

The hand in his hair slid down to cup his face, thumb gently brushing over his cheek. “I missed you all day. I would’ve come by sooner, but Josie grabbed me for judgement.”

“Ah. Yes, I heard about that,” he said, voice stiffening as the smile slid off his face.

“You don’t approve of what I did.” A statement, not a question. The hand on his face came down onto his shoulder, fisting in the mantle.

“I had never considered Tranquility to be a course of action _you_ would take.”

“Why? Because I’m a mage?” She could feel that old, cold, hard edge creeping back into her voice. Ancient prejudice and hate sprouted up again, springing back easily even after all of those months of shoving it down.

“Well, _yes_ , actually. In every Circle I’d been in, the mages there considered Tranquility a fate worse than death.”

“I do as well.”

“Executing him would have sent the same message.”

“No. It wouldn’t have. It _means_ something coming from me.” _I wanted to see him in pain, afraid. I wanted revenge._ “A mage knows what to be tranquil would mean. If a mage sentenced him to that, it means I consider what he had done to be too terrible to warrant the mercy of execution.” _I couldn’t stand the thought of him thinking he’d_ won _._

“Is that only what it was about?” The way he asked it said he knew she was doing it just to be cruel. She had inflicted the worst thing she could think of on him, and had been _happy_ about it. He’d surely heard of the way she’d had a private smile as Erimond was dragged away from the hall.

Clara studied his face for a moment. Golden eyes, sincere and worried for her. One hand tightening its grip around her own, his mouth set and turned down at the corners. “Yes,” she said curtly because she wanted him to just drop it. Maybe she’d talk about it later, maybe she’d tell him that a little piece of how she used to be was still there. “Let’s just get dinner, Cullen.” Her tone said _drop it_ , and wonderfully, he did.

The tension eased up as they ate dinner, her coldness and his concern nearly forgotten. Varric told a story and Cassandra was noticeably absent. Cullen looked at Clara questioningly and she filled him in on the latest information about the Seeker. Dorian left Clara alone for the most part, though he did get that infuriating smirk on his face whenever he turned to look at her. The next time Sera wanted to cause mayhem, perhaps Clara would give her a razor and direct her towards Dorian’s quarters.

Dinner passed easily, a few cups of wine and Clara’s fingers were pleasantly warm. Cullen had a red blush on his face just like he’d had all those months ago the night Hawke had arrived. It was simpler, the weight of her judgement wasn’t hanging over her anymore and she could just be looser. After dinner, she stumbled back to Cullen’s office where he kissed her breathless on that little love seat.

He was so much larger than her, even without the armor. Their hips rolled together easily as they laughed at practically nothing, his armor having been peeled off once they got back. It was good to just lay there with his arms around her, his mouth trailing up her neck. She loved the way he kissed her freckles, the way she couldn’t breathe properly, the way he felt under her hands. It was such a change of pace, to be able to just lie there fully clothed while they both worked each other up. She was catching up on everything she had skipped in the Circle; she’d never had those gentle touches he gave her, never just laid down with a man while he kissed her neck and cupped her breasts. She’d skipped all of it, just found boys she’d hardly known and practically used them in the darkest corners of the Circle, pushing them away in near disgust when she was done. It was entirely different when it was someone she _wanted_ to be with, someone she cared about and who cared about her back. It was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

She went back to her own quarters that night, the sounds of his groans still ringing in his ears. At dawn, she woke up and was almost giddy with how rested she felt. Just being around him made her feel _better_ , like she wasn’t doomed or crushed under the weight of her own command. His presence shouldered some of that strange fear, and she loved that he seemed more at ease when she was around as well. It was like he was finally letting her carry some of his burdens. They weren’t so heavy in her arms when compared to his own.

Clara dressed quickly and almost _skipped_ to his office, the entire display ridiculous but she didn’t care about the queer looks she got from the washers and runners. Her feet felt light and she wasn’t tired at all for a change. All she wanted to do was go and _see_ him, wake him up and press an eager kiss to his mouth because she _loved_ that way his face scrunched up when he kissed her. He was eager like a puppy, all excited hands and lovely lips.

He was fully dressed and considering the papers on his desk when she walked in. There was the slight disappointment that she wouldn’t be climbing his ladder to wake him up, but the eager, sunny smile he gave her more than made up for that.

She came up to kiss him, but he grabbed her hand between both of his instead. “I’m glad you came by! We have dealings in Ferelden and I’d like you to come with me. When you’re free, of course.”

“Is it serious?” she asked. Anything that could possibly be going wrong in Ferelden scrolled through her head. It was a surprisingly long list.

“What?” He sounded surprised, eyes widening at her. “No, nothing like that! I’d really just rather explain it to you when we get there.”

Clara considered him for a moment, slight confusion still there but she nodded to him. “Well, I have the time now.”

He practically _beamed_ at her. “Alright, I’ll go make the arrangements.”

And he nearly ran from the room, leaving her standing there while she watched his papers flutter in the slight breeze he had left behind. He came back nearly twenty minutes later, finding Clara sitting on his couch and leafing through one of his books.

“The horses are saddled up and we have clothes packed,” he said breathlessly, face flushed from excitement.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked, putting the book down and standing to examine his face. He looked somewhat sweaty, but there weren’t any circles under his eyes today and he didn’t look _ill_.

He grabbed her hand and tugged her gently, telling her that they were just ready to leave and Dennett never liked to be kept waiting. At the gates she found a small entourage of soldiers, their horses, and a small wagon filled with tents, provisions and a trunk of clothing. She didn’t say it aloud, but it was clear he’d been planning this for a while. The preoccupied look he’d had for the past week made more sense now and her face grew hot at how she had automatically assumed it was because of her.

He helped her onto her mount, giving her hand a slight squeeze before he left for his own horse. She would have rathered a kiss, but there was still that show of privacy they maintained. It was thrilling in its own way, but she would always be frustrated that others wouldn’t _know_ how much she loved him.

The ride to Ferelden was short, and they crossed into the border near the end of the first day and stayed in a small inn. The innkeeper was far too kind and refused payment from the Herald of Andraste, but gracefully accepted a donation from the Inquisition. Clara shook her head in exasperation as Cullen tried to explain it, but she would never really understand southern courtesy.

The sleeping arrangements were embarrassing as well. They both considered separate rooms for a few moments before they opted for one together. The looks the soldiers gave Cullen when he wasn’t paying attention had Clara burning. Their faces said they were all taking bets on how hard he was going to make her scream when she _knew_ all they were going to do was sleep. It was a strange sort of frustration she held about it all and it stuck in her head, even as she was dressing to sleep in the room.

Cullen had gone in before her and was already dressed for sleep when she walked in. He didn’t look while she changed, peeling the riding leathers off of her body behind a slight partition. Disappointment that they would _just_ be sleeping had seeped into her arms and legs, made her feel heavier than she actually was. She _wanted_ him like nothing else, she thought about what _really_ sleeping with him would feel like, it nearly consumed her with how much she dreamt of it. His huge hands holding her own while they rolled together, his mouth swallowing the noises she made, the drag of them skin-on-skin, she was almost dizzy with it.

When she came out from behind the partition she was flushed and her legs felt weak. Cullen was sitting on one of his legs on the bed, reading one of the numerous reports he had no doubt brought. He looked up when she sat down next to him, her legs drawn up underneath her.

“You’re working now?” she asked incredulously.

“I’m _reading_ ,” he asserted. “It’s different.”

“Reading a _report_.”

“Still just reading.”

“You’re impossible,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He blushed slightly but still offered her a soft smile. “Ready to go to sleep?”

 _No_. “Riding does tire me.” She crawled up towards the head of the bed and began pulling the blankets loose. He started helping her and soon they were both under the covers, his face pressed into the crux of her shoulder. She could feel the ghost of his breath over the tops of her breasts through the thin fabric. His stubble scratch was familiar and even calming, something that was so explicitly _Cullen_. Her arms were around him and she could feel the way his breathing eased as he relaxed into the embrace, his muscles coming loose as that tension he always carried melted off. It was all strikingly domestic.

“You ready to tell me where we’re going?” she murmured, a hand coming up to stroke through his hair.

“It’s a surprise,” he said into her skin.

“I have the sneaking suspicion it isn’t for the Inquisition.” She tugged gently on his hair and he chuckled at her.

“We both needed some time off.” A kiss to her neck.

She hummed at him, a noise to say _Do it again_. “You’re the last person I’d expect to want time off.”

His lips brushed over her throat, another chuckle rumbling against her as she gave a small moan. “I can relax. It’s been known to happen.”

“I would’ve never thought for it to happen in _my_ lifetime, however,” she replied, tugging harder on his hair. He let her pull him up to her for another kiss, this one long and drawn out. His mouth opened easily for her and she _loved_ it, loved _him_. He made the _best_ noises when she _touched_ him, let alone kissed him. So much more vocal than she was, she couldn’t keep her hands off of him; she had to hear what noise he’d make when she touched some other part of him.

He pulled her down further onto the bed so he could kiss her properly, his body forming a possessive curve as he shifted to lie over her. Her legs wrapped themselves around his hips involuntarily, a guttural gasp ripping itself out of them both as they rolled together. That knot of anticipation was starting in her gut again, the faces the soldiers had made earlier swimming up in her mind as she flushed heavily.

His kisses turned harder, more teeth and the need to get closer as he settled down so their chests were pressed together. Her mind had jumped into double-time, possible scenario outcomes flashing by lightning fast. All those old dreams came back and she gripped him hard, her fingers digging into his back. He broke off from her mouth, a near-scream ripping itself from her as he gave a particularly restless push against her. Her nails bit into him through his shirt, both breathing heavily as he leaned his forehead against hers.

Her eyes were screwed shut, her arms shaking. He started with those hot kisses on her neck, all bites and hard stubble. His hips still rolled with her own, pressed her into the lumpy mattress and she couldn't help the sounds she made. She could feel him through his pants and she was _shaking_ with anticipation. She wanted him to do _something,_ wanted his hands everywhere, wanted to just pull his shirt up, wanted, wanted, _wanted_ \--

There was a hard knock on the door, loud and jarring. Cullen stopped over her, his hips stilling and she could've _screamed_ in frustration. She tried to get him to move again, her hips wiggling restlessly against his, but he was too heavy, the weight of him keeping her pressed into the mattress. His heart was beating fast and erratic against her, her own going at a gallop.

The knock came again and Cullen cursed quietly. _“Yes?”_ he called out, voice raw and nearly angry.

Clara moaned softly at the roughness in his voice, the knowledge that _she’d_ put it there. He looked down at her and moaned quietly, turning away with a small roll of his hips. She could only picture what she looked like: mouth half-open, hair a tangled red mess against the pillows, face flushed and pupils blown wide as she looked back at him through lidded eyes.

“The men wanted to know if you were alright,” the soldier called back. “We heard a scream.”

Clara had been red already, but she burned harder than ever in embarrassment at that. She pushed Cullen off of herself and stalked towards the door. It opened with a groan to expose the terrified face of the soldier in question. He tried to look around her but she filled up the doorway in all of her red-faced glory.

“I-Inquisitor,” he managed to stammer out.

 _“Leave,”_ she nearly snarled. Her hair was a mess, her nightdress was crumpled and ridden up, and she had _murder_ in her eyes.

He just stood there, pallid and terrified and she had to resist giving into the primal urge to turn him into an ice sculpture.

_“Now!”_

He couldn’t be away fast enough then, bounding down the narrow hallway and around a corner until he was out of sight. Clara sagged slightly in the doorway, limbs trembling from the snapped anticipation. Cullen was silent behind her and she sighed, turning to go back to him. She laid down stiffly next to him, hand rubbing against her scar in old pain, that heated moment lost. Her face _burned_ , she could hardly believe she’d grinded herself into him like that. It was so strange to get lost in the lust of the moment, now that she was detached from it she was disgusted with herself. There’d been such trouble even telling him she’d cared for him and then getting both of them more comfortable with touching each other, she found herself unwilling to do anything before he _told_ her he wanted to. It wasn’t a matter of her being unsure of his physical reaction; she could feel how badly he wanted her everytime he kissed her, had his hands on her, had their hips slotted together.

His arms came around her from behind and that shame bubbled up even thicker than it had before. He murmured consolation and apology into her skin and she took it, easing but not turning to face him. She wasn’t sure what she wanted exactly, and those sex dreams still clawed at her mind and left her aching in the morning, but it wasn’t the same as it was before. She had been so _close_ to him. As they saddled up to ride out for the remainder of the trip, she was pensive. Every encounter, she’d initiated. The battlements, the different ways he touched her, all those embraces had been her. She’d had him so many ways in her head but she’d never even gotten his shirt off.

When they finally got there, it turned out to be a small pier on Lake Calenhad. Cullen was peaceful there, face more relaxed than she had ever seen him. This was a private part of himself, something he had never come back to before then, and he had taken _her_. Her mind whirled trying to find a reason he would decide to return with her, but she settled on the idea that maybe there wasn’t a reason more complicated than he wanted to show her how he felt. She loved him dearly, wholly, completely, and he did too.

It was written in the way he gave her that small soft grin as he pressed his secret good luck into her palm. She couldn’t help the smile she returned, it was wider than she thought she could make and so _genuine_ , she loved him so _deeply_ she thought she could die from it.

She took the coin because it was more than just the wish for her to be safe when he wasn’t around. It was something like a promise that he was hers, he could trust this old part of himself to her. She could handle it and she was perfectly okay with this speed they were moving at. She didn’t need anything more than what he was willing to give that day.

When he kissed her, it was wonderful. Slow, soft, full of those words neither was really sure how to say. She tried to press a silent _I love you_ into his lips, but something might have been lost in translation. It was alright though, she could keep trying until she got it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to get this away from myself. I've been sick but I really wanted to put this out. It was originally supposed to be longer, but then it would've been, like, 25 pages and i don't think anyone here wants a chapter that long. Anyway, please, please, please tell me how this went, especially now that things are heating up!


	13. Tu me rappelles ce que c'est que d'être aimé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He came apart so _easily_ in her hands. The way he moaned into her kisses, the insistent way she could feel his arousal pressing against her, the hardness of his grip, how he nearly _bruised_ her, it just left her wanting and dizzy. She nearly shook to pieces in his grip, her own moans echoing his. She _wanted, craved, needed_ , but never got.

It was peaceful by that pier. There wasn’t the Inquisition waiting outside the walls, there weren’t any nobles to greet or gifts to respond to, it was just them. The world wasn’t ending, the sky wasn’t torn open, and there weren’t dragons flying overhead. Lake Calenhad lapped quietly against the shore and the two of them laughed at practically nothing. Not much was said, Cullen’s coin warm and solid as she gripped it tightly, afraid to lose it. They didn’t have to say anything, they’d said _so much_ already, it was nice to just enjoy this piece of his past together.

They stayed there until nightfall and stayed in an inn nearby. Something was different when they slept that night, there was a different closeness behind the heated kisses and grabbing. It felt desperate, neither really tried to hide the sounds they made and it never got past those clothes both insisted on wearing to bed. She was frustrated and overheated, skin too hot to touch and it felt like his eyes burned her. The imprints of his hands felt branded onto her, the memory of their hips rolling together plaguing her through another night of restless dreams and then a day of riding.

It wasn’t bad, though. It wasn’t _good_ either, it was just _there_. It made her feel foggy, like her head had too many things going on at once. Cullen had tried to bring it up when they slept in another inn, almost to Skyhold. Clara hadn’t really listened when he asked her if she was ill, why she was flushed and warm. Instead she’d kissed him hard, moaning easily as she pressed herself all along him. It was like she didn’t know what was happening to herself, she was so _worked up_. She wanted to get closer to him, closer than just his hands and his eyes and those little things about him she noticed would let her. She rocked restlessly in his lap, desperate for some sort of finality.

She never got it though, instead rolling off of him and pressing her face into the pillow in shame. She had to resist the urge to scream and bat away Cullen’s hands when he tried to ask her if she was alright again. His voice was rough from kissing her and she could feel the hard ridge of his erection when he laid down next to her and pulled her into his arms. He apologized again, the words sounding like he didn’t know what else to say. She snapped at him to stop, it was her, _she_ was the one who shouldn’t have gotten carried away, it was her fault, it was always her fault she couldn’t control herself.

But she apologized for it too, because he didn’t deserve the way she yanked him around. She kissed him goodnight and tried to ignore the way she ached, empty and wanting. Her dreams were standard, she was used to them, she almost missed the taunting demons; at least they didn’t leave her a mess when she woke up. When she was saddling up the next morning for the return to Skyhold, she kissed Cullen in front of his small retinue. It was hard and fierce, and she delighted in the way he nearly growled into it. Breaking away, she sought out that soldier that had interrupted her that night in the inn and scowled until he turned away, red-faced. It was a small victory that she only felt slightly bad about.

They reached Skyhold at noon that day and dismounted quickly, a runner coming up to bring the Inquisitor to Josephine’s office. Dreading the work that had piled up, she followed after squeezing Cullen’s hand in goodbye. Nobles had probably pestered poor Josie endless as to a meeting with the Inquisitor or a personal viewing of her mark, or even yet another marriage proposal. Josephine had diligently kept those last ones from Clara, but she had managed to find one that slipped through the cracks. It had been from a Marcher lord and to his eldest son, and Josephine had apologized for letting Clara see it. Since then, Clara had asked for them all to be sent to her desk. Sometimes she brought the truly terrible ones to Dorian or Vivienne; they usually had something horrible to say or point out.

Today though, she was brought in to discuss gifts that had arrived, but that was postponed when a shrill scream resounded through the main hall. Both Clara and the page jumped and ran the rest of the way to the office, slamming the door open to see Josephine staring at a body on the floor, the acrid smell of blood and death accompanying the pooling red on the stone tiles.

It was the House of Repose, of course. The Inquisitor is gone for three days and an assassin breaks in and tries to murder her ambassador. She couldn't leave for a day without things falling apart.

Josephine assured Clara she was fine, Leliana’s spy had saved her. She just needed to calm down, and Clara gave the order for her to retire early, _please_ get some rest, be safe, this would be finished as soon as possible. In her head, Clara was already gusting, that old anger reaching up her back and sitting firmly at the base of her skull. The fact that the House of Repose had the nerve to act out against the Inquisition attested both to its devotion to its customers and its immense lack of care for its own preservation.

Josie left for her room, guard in toe as Clara turned and left for her own chambers. A bath and a change of clothes later, she left to ask Leliana about the infiltration. She handled it in her usual hard manner, frustration mounting as she filled the Inquisitor on about the breach in the staff. It had apparently died with that assassin, someone new and not yet recognizable as threat. Not a true attack, a formality at best.

It was eerily reminiscent of Bull tossing those assassins off of the battlements in front of Clara. Two organizations there to deter leaving and uphold their image, sacrificing those less important for that. It was so _odd_ to her now how people were used as a formality. In the Circle, she might’ve been in perfect agreement, but now she was just disgusted. Everyday something new happened to remind her how immature she had been and how unaware of it she was. Being the pretty one or the cold one didn’t do shit for her outside of that ocean basement and it had been many long, hard months learning that. That petty immaturity had melted off along with those acerbic words and her old vitriol. She wasn’t so much an angry blizzard or an avalanche anymore, threatening to bury anyone who was foolish enough to stand outside too long or annoy her. She had dulled more into something cooler, calmer, less like winter.

She still couldn’t summon fire for shit, though.

Clara left Leliana for the paperwork at her desk. She summoned a page once she was in her room, and told him to inform Cassandra, Sera, and Vivienne that they were leaving for Minister Bellise’s _chateau_ in the morning and to be ready. The page jumped away immediately, nearly sprinting from the room after Clara dismissed her. It was time to just finish this.

She stayed in her room most of the day, sifting through letters and receipts and reports. It was slow going and the memory of that dead assassin on Josephine’s floor gnawed at her thoughts. Reading marriage proposals and ridiculous gift letters didn’t really delight her like they normally would’ve.

Later, after the sun had already cleared the purpling mountains, she pushed away from her desk and left for dinner. It was perhaps too late to actually sit and eat with the rest of her inner circle, but hopefully there would still be something left she would like. Perhaps she’d see Cullen afterward, bounce what happened to Josephine off of him. He was more practical than Clara was, less inclined towards emotional outbursts. Settling this matter would put her mind to ease, but hearing him lay out the plans would be the next best thing.

In the tavern, she spotted Blackwall. He was staring pensively into a mug of ale, face wrinkled and upset. Clara came and sat down next to him, stool scraping loudly against the stone floor.

He turned and saw her, a small, sad smile briefly flashing on his face before it melted off. “Here I was afraid I was going to have to drink alone.”

“I need to eat something before I try to challenge you to another drinking contest,” she answered, summoning the bartender. “I’m not out to win, I’m just here to _not_ make a complete fool of myself.”

“It’s not your fault you ended up under the table after taking Bull on; you’re half his size,” he remarked, watching her order.

“My parents always did tell me my eyes were bigger than my stomach,” she sighed, drumming her fingers on the stained bar. “Though I guess “bigger than my _liver”_ would be more appropriate.”

The bartender brought her a part of a bird and she wrinkled her nose before starting in, conversation with Blackwall easy, if not a little subdued. She’d seen him have _fun_ before, and this was something else. There was an unhappiness behind what he said, the way he spoke. Old guilt was right there under the surface, it was so easy recognize to her now.

After a few pints, everything was hazier. It was warm and stuffy inside of the tavern, Blackwall’s words all bleeding together into one long sentence. They were both flushed, Clara’s vision hazy as she finally asked him what was bothering him, just _spit it out_ , man.

He looked at her for a moment before turning and staring at her tankard, eyes suddenly 30 years in the past and 1000 miles away. He told her of the dog that the children had tortured, strung up, asked her what he thought he did. That look in his eyes when he turned towards her turned her stomach, there was old sorrow and a weight he didn’t want to carry anymore. It suddenly wasn’t about the dog, that was just one thing in a list of inadequacies.

She narrowed her eyes at him, she wasn’t _there_ , she didn’t know what he did. She wanted to believe he cut it down, saved it, put it out of it’s misery. But he didn’t, and she told him as much, watched him through those foggy eyes as he laid out that one dark spot of his childhood. It really wasn’t about the dog, he was being cowardly. There was a pause where he offered her something to say, and perhaps it was the heavy ale rolling around inside of her or her natural hardness, but she called him _coward_.

Strange enough, it seemed to be the answer he wanted. He nodded, told her she would have done the right thing. That was where he was wrong; she wouldn’t have, not when she was small. She would’ve killed it, _could’ve_ killed it, put it down like Cole did to those too far past suffering to be saved. There was little compassion in her, memories of her crushing the possessions of other children at the Circle under her heel. Eyes angry as she looked at those common kids with their gutter heritage and sniveling faces, she had _never_ been someone to do the right thing until this past year.

She stumbled away from Blackwall after all of that, intent on fresh air and perhaps something else to thin her blood even more. Her head ached from everything: Josephine’s assassin, Blackwall’s inexplicable guilt, the weight of Cullen’s coin in her breast pocket. Everyone laid everything at her feet and it was like she had three options. She could kick it over, pick it up and take it with her, or just fix it. Her ability to plan more than a few days in the future made kicking the problems aside the most appealing course of action, but she _knew_ it wasn’t.

Head thick and feet itching to go somewhere, she stumbled up the battlements to Cullen’s office. The wind was blowing fiercely, her coat and scarves flapping around her madly as she ascended the staircase. It was amazing she didn’t get thrown off the side, and Cullen exclaimed as much when she stumbled in through the side door, shivering and unstable.

“You could’ve been blown off the battlements,” he said worriedly as he helped her peel her coat off.

“But I _didn’t_.” She was breathless and flushed, head still buzzing but not as loudly as she would have liked it.

“Are you drunk?” He put the coat on his desk and looked at her with that half-smile.

She grabbed him to steady herself, an unsteady grin blooming on her face as she examined him. Fresh stubble, he didn’t look so tired, he was _beautiful_. “Not as much as I want to be,” she admitted, tugging him down so she could hug him, her arms wound tightly around his neck.

He hugged her back, surprisingly strong and solid. A heavy sigh ripped itself out of him as he hunched over her, plates and mantle nearly consuming her face. “It’s good to see you,” he murmured into her neck.

Clara fought through the fur to plant a kiss on his neck. “I just needed to see you.” She pushed him off, but held one of his hands in hers, tugging the glove off. “You’ve heard of what happened to Josephine, right?”

He nodded, smile falling as he straightened up. “Yes, and we’ve doubled the guards around her quarters and office. Leliana has agents tasting her food to prevent a poisoning as well.” He helped her pull his other glove off.

“Good, good. It should all be fixed soon anyway; I’m going out first thing tomorrow to put it all to rest.” She started rubbing circles into his hands, thumbs brushing over the backs of his palms.

“You’ll be alright, won’t you?” That worry was in his voice again and her chest constricted at it.

“Well it’s Orlesian nobles. Not exactly _safe_.”

He snorted, worry broken. “Still safer than fighting a _dragon_.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she replied slowly, stepping closer and pressing herself against him. “You were at the Winter Palace. At least a dragon is more direct.”

“Orlesian politics is disgusting,” he said, nose wrinkling. He said it so frankly it was _hilarious_ to Clara.

She laughed into his breastplate, face practically splitting as she tried to smother her giggles. He peeled her off and looked at her, feeling her forehead with his warm fingers. A few tremors still shook her and her hair had come out of its bun, a few loose tresses brushing against her shoulder.

“You haven’t had _that_ much to drink, have you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, but I came up here to fix that. I just like being _around_ you Cullen.”

He blushed slightly, cheeks turning pink. “Well,” he said gruffly, straightening up and pulling her towards his desk. He cleared his throat and looked at the bottles on his desk. “Do you want a drink?”

She wrapped one arm around his waist and nodded. He picked up what looked like wine before setting it back down in favor of something in a decanter. It was amber colored and she couldn’t help but think of how much it reminded her of his eyes as he poured it into two tumblers. He handed her one and watched her make a face as she drained about half if, a chuckle coming out as he knocked it back in one shot.

“Very impressive Commander,” she said, watching him fill his up again.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and laughed. “At least I can drink it without making a face.”

“We don’t drink grain liquor in the Free Marches,” she huffed indignantly. She moved a few of his papers aside and sat on the lip of his desk. “It’s all imported wine or _very_ old dwarven ale.”

“You can stomach dwarven ale but not whiskey.”

“I never _drank_ it, Cullen.”

He came to lean next to her with a chuckle, glass in hand. “Count yourself lucky then. I had a shot on a dare when I was 20 and I think I blacked out for a week. First thing I remember after the shot was laying on the floor of the Circle stockroom with helmets on my feet."

“I didn't know you took risks like that,” she remarked. She finished her glass just to spite him and reached a shaking hand out to pour another.

He chuckled again but he blushed heavily. He used his glass as a temporary distraction before he lowered it and shrugged, face turning slightly pensive as he looked off to the side. “I never took many risks in my life. Not really.”

She felt something in his posture now; he was remembering something, or perhaps everything. “Something on your mind?” she asked quietly, inching closer to him. _Maker_ , that lyrium thrum rolling off of him nearly had her choked.

“Not really.” He shrugged, coming back a little. “It’s just sometimes… I wonder.”

“About?”

“My family, Ferelden, Kirkwall, the Inquisition,” he listed, considering his glass again. He gulped down the remainder and sighed, looking down at her. “You.”

Clara’s throat tightened almost painfully, sudden fear that he was admitting regret burning through her. “What do you mean?” Her voice was hoarse and cracked, smaller than she wanted it to be. His coin felt like it was melting into her chest, the weight of it suddenly so heavy.

“I’m not a Templar anymore, and there aren't any Circles _left_. It’s… ridiculous, but being with you, we’re _both_ taking a risk.” He looked away from her, embarrassment at having admitted his apprehension flashing bright on his face.

“You regret being with me,” she said flatly, anger beginning to build, head too fuzzy to really make sense of what he was saying. He had _just_ taken her somewhere special, given her his coin, he seemed delighted whenever she walked into the room, it didn't make _sense_.

His gaze snapped back to her, eyes wide. “No! _Maker_ , that’s _not_ what I meant. I mean--it’s just that--you’re a _mage_ \--” he cut himself off and dragged his hands down his face, cursing as he tried to find what he was going to say.

“I thought me being a mage didn’t matter.” Her face was warm and she was sure she looked redder than a tomato. Fingers cold as she gripped the desk, she stood up in front of him, angry and surprised and just _upset_.

He reached for her hand, fingers warm against her ice-cold ones. She was breathing heavily, anger ebbing as she looked at his face, embarrassment for assuming so quickly bubbling up. He was sincere, genuine, honest, but he fumbled with what he said around her sometimes. She did too, in truth, but he still tried to speak when the words wouldn't come while she remained silent.

“It doesn't, it  _doesn't_ ,” he said, thumb brushing those smooth circles against her. “I don’t know if it would've earlier, when I was a Templar, but it  _doesn't_ now. I’m just… _amazed_ you trust me, Clara.”

She swallowed down her shame and leaned towards him, let his arms come around her. He hugged her tightly, face in her hair as he told her he didn’t regret her, she made him feel _better_ , less like he had been before. He knew how Templars treated mages, how she felt about them. He _knew_ she had been afraid, hated him at first. He had a hard time expressing how glad he was that she had seen past it, climbed over her old hate for him. She didn’t know how to tell him it wasn’t supposed to happen like that, she wasn’t supposed to fall in love with a _Templar_. Yet now, she couldn’t imagine what she would be like without him, his eyes, his burning sincerity, the way he made her feel _safe_.

Her head was still buzzing, whiskey and ale forming a brutal combination in her blood. Still, she clung tighter to him, tried to get closer even through those layers of plate and mail. She _needed_ him in so many different ways it was nearly impossible to tell him anything specific. It was like she didn’t know how to grasp anything else the way she knew how to hold him, he fit her perfectly.

After a while, it clearly became uncomfortable for Cullen with the way she was pressing him into the desk. He pulled her up with him, her feet dangling uselessly as he brought them over to that small couch. Not even bothering to pull his armor off, he maneuvered them around so she was lying in his arms, barely an inch from tumbling off the love seat.

He pressed a kiss to her scar like he had so many times before. She brushed her own over his lips, feeling the raised texture of _his_ scar and the scrape of his stubble. It was familiar, all authentically him. She wanted every night to be like this where she could just stay with him, lie next to him without having to leave for her own quarters. She wanted a _future_ with him and whatever came with that.

It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Mages hardly ever dreamed of families, they were entirely out of reach in the Circle and here she was with Cullen. She hadn’t even had sex with him yet but she could hardly picture herself with anyone else now. She’d let him do almost anything to her, the most innocent things she had never let those Circle boys do. He kissed her freely, ran his hands through her hair, turned over what she said and kept it close. Clara had never really felt infatuation like this before, it was so much _better_ than the hard fucks in dark Circle corners. She didn’t bat him away when his hands went to her face or when he kissed her. She didn’t _make_ him do anything and he always waited until she _let_ him.

She wasn’t sure how late it was, but the sun had already started to peek through the arrow slits in his wall. They had just lied there, gentle kisses and that steady, wanting roll of her hips. She couldn’t even be positive how she used to feel before she was completely consumed by the need to just grind herself into him. She was positively aching with the way he pressed into her, the way she tore him apart.

He came apart so _easily_ in her hands. The way he moaned into her kisses, the insistent way she could feel his arousal pressing against her, the hardness of his grip, how he nearly _bruised_ her, it just left her wanting and dizzy. She nearly shook to pieces in his grip, her own moans echoing his. She _wanted, craved, needed_ , but never got.

It was so _hard_ to break away from him when she started to hear birds signifying the sun rising, but she managed to. She still pressed those kisses to his lips even as she was pulling away and righting her clothing, face flushed and knees weak. He stood with her, his hands holding her close as he got in one last kiss. It was harder than the others and he had her hips wedged firmly against his own, one of his thighs pressed between her legs. The noise she made was halfway between a moan and a gasp of surprise and he had the nerve to _smirk_ at her when he broke away.

She declined his offer to walk her to her room, half angry at him for the reactions he pulled out of her so easily. Alone, she went quickly across the battlements and to her own quarters, falling into blissfully dreamless sleep for a few hours until a runner came to inform her that the horses were saddled and ready to leave. She dressed quickly, blushing as she examined the marks Cullen left on her neck and shoulders. They were dark, one on her shoulder particularly large and explicitly bite-shaped. She dressed in her high-necked shirt, not exactly ready to show Minister Bellise what she let the Commander of the Inquisition do to her. His coin was tucked into a small pocket on the torso, a comfort.

The ride didn’t really take all that long in the grand scheme of things. They arrived at the _chateau_ about an hour before sundown and bargained with Bellise. She was a cold woman who demanded something for apparently spoiling the nobility of Orlais even further. Clara offered her her connections and she took it with thanks and a smile hidden behind her mask.

The Inquisitor left with a bad taste in her mouth and a reminder why her father always used to speak of how he loathed Orlesians. They stayed in an _auberge_ on the outskirts of Val Royeaux that night, the rooms vastly expensive and the food too rich for Clara to stomach it properly. Sera noticed the marks on Clara’s throat that night as they ate dinner and commented incessantly on it, wicked grin on her face as she teased.

“It looks like your Cully-Wully has a _bite_ on him,” she said, tugging the collar of Clara’s shirt over to expose the dark mark he had left amid her freckles.

Vivienne scoffed and did her best to ignore Sera, but Cassandra blessedly intervened. _“Enough, Sera,”_ she said sternly, ushering the elf away from the Inquisitor.

Sera complained wholeheartedly but continued to grin as she escaped Cassandra’s grasp. Cassandra took the seat she had vacated next to Clara and looked at her sideways.

“Is it just like your novels, Cassandra?” Clara asked evenly, trying to focus on the pea soup in front of her.

“Perhaps I should have just let Sera continue her torture, then,” she replied. She started to get up, but Clara grabbed her sleeve.

“No, Maker’s breath, _please_ don’t go,” she said quickly. “I can’t listen to her make another peach joke, Cassandra.”

The look the Seeker gave her was pitying, but she stayed. “I am here to protect you, no matter how ridiculous the threat, it would seem.”

Cassandra stayed next to her, distracting the Inquisitor from her own embarrassment. That night, Clara slept soundly, those same dreams scrolling behind her eyes and refusing to let her wake even when Sera was shaking her mattress. Still, she pried herself up and they arrived at Skyhold after dark, the stars glittering wonderfully overhead.

Cullen greeted her at the gates, only a hug, but the way his hands gripped her promised something more. Already, just from being next to him she could feel that ache building and her knees getting weak. She spent the night in his office again, just like so many others, grinning as they talked and kissed on his love seat. It was so _wonderful_ , a few tears squeezed themselves out as he pressed himself to her. She wiped them away in surprise, assuring him she was fine she was just _happy_.

They slept the entire night on that couch, Clara only waking because he shook her until her eyes opened in the morning. She kissed him goodbye, the kiss lingering and all she wanted to do was press him back into the loveseat and grind herself in his lap until they were both screaming each other’s names.

But she didn’t, and righting her clothing, she left for the stables to ask Dennett to prepare the horses to leave that night for Val Royeaux again, at the request of Josephine. Stopping in the barn, she expected to see Blackwall, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead a little piece of paper was tacked to his rocking horse, he was _sorry_ but he had to make up for what he had done.

Then Leliana’s runner passed by and everything seemed to click into place when she asked about where her Warden had gone. She was bound for Val Royeaux yet again, and she asked Dennett to make the horses ready for _right now_ , she had to go and track down the Warden yet again.

Josie came with her this time, along with Cassandra, Cole, and Vivienne. Val Royeaux was a day away, the carriage subdued as they bumped their way there. Cole murmured about old guilt and even fresher regret and with each thing he said Blackwall’s inexplicable actions gained a sinister film.

They rolled into Val Royeaux late that night and saw a hanging scheduled for the next afternoon. They stayed in another overpriced _hôtel_ in Val Royeaux, this establishment not having any trouble accepting payment from the Inquisitor. The next morning Josephine met her by the docks and expressed her gratitude for what Clara had done. They were _friends_ , Clara found herself willing to do nearly anything to ensure she stayed safe. Even when Josephine mused about what she had done when she was young, played the part of the typical star-struck noble girl, Clara listened. She didn’t try to assure Josie she did the right or wrong thing, just said it was her or him. She stayed with her, looking out at the returning barges and pleasure ships until a crowd began to gather around the gallows in the main square.

The man they dragged up on stage was pitiful, had the look of a man who had spent too much of his life trying to kill himself for something he shouldn’t have done. When Blackwall interrupted, Clara wasn’t _surprised_ , but she felt an acute disgust at having been lied to the entire time. He was dragged away in chains to await sentencing, Josephine hurrying back to her room to request input on what to do from Leliana and Cullen.

They waited two days for a bird, but one never came. Cullen showed up instead, angry and with a retinue of soldiers. Clara didn’t hug him when she saw him, but her hand sought his and listened as he asked her to meet him in the dungeon they had tossed Blackwall. He wanted to speak with him first.

A few hours after he arrived, Clara descended those steps into the prison, the chill in the moldy air growing more apparent the lower she went. Cullen met her at the base, disappointment and indignation in his eyes as he expressed the disgust he held for Blackwall now. She nodded at him, asked him to wait there while she spoke with Blackwall.

Her conversation didn’t take long. Revulsion welled up inside of her as she stood there looking down at him. He didn’t try to defend himself when she spat the worst things she could think of at him, _fake, murderer, liar_. He took them all and added his own, accepting that they were all true. He wasn’t a Warden, probably would never be, he wasn’t her shield in the dark, he didn’t know the meaning of _protect and serve_. He was Thom Rainier, the man who had allowed an entire family to be slaughtered and then ran away, stole a dead man’s name and was content to waste away under it. She didn't feel the satisfaction she had wanted to at calling him everything she could; instead it was empty, he didn't rise to her bait.

She left him and spoke with Cullen again, went over her options with him. There was admiration in his voice when he spoke of Blackwall willingly giving himself back, but it was cut through by his anger that he had been lied to so easily. He just wanted to go back to Skyhold and they could discuss what to do there.

He stayed in her suite that night, but it wasn’t heated or spent grasping at each other. She cooled her fingers and ran them through his hair until he fell asleep on the bed, the purple smudges under his eyes dark. Her heart ached for him as she watched, but she let him sleep, instead curling up next to him, her head on his shoulder. They left for Skyhold the next morning and upon returning, a War Council was summoned and her options presented.

It boiled down to four choices. Leliana could sneak him out, Cullen could storm the prison, Josephine could negotiate for his release, or she could just let him rot there. While letting him stew in his own guilt in the ground was tempting, he didn’t deserve something that bad. He _had_ stood by her since the beginning, protected her in Alexius’ false future and in the Fade. So she asked Josephine to get him released to her; if anyone was qualified to pass judgement on him, it would be her.

She went to bed soon after the council was dismissed, Cullen coming to her room later on but before she had fallen asleep. He admitted to not wanting to spend the night alone, and she let him into her room eagerly, expressing her desire to sleep in his arms. So that night she laid wrapped up in him, lyrium thrum and thick shirt impressing her skin with its weave as both pretended to sleep, minds too restless to do anything than lie there and think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one's a bit short, but it's because I wanted to put it out already so I could have more time to work on the next one, which'll hopefully be the best one yet. So, as usual, tell me what you thought and how it went and everything


	14. Tu rends mes jours plus faciles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stood there, naked and pressed all along him as they held each other, swaying gently in the middle of the loft. It was calm and intimate, somehow so much more than she could have ever wanted. It was better than all of her dreams put together, he was _here_ and in her arms and neither was frustrated or upset over the other being gone. She was all red hair and freckles and malice but he still held her tightly, afraid to let her go, just as she held him. He was so _real_ , hard and golden in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

He was announced as _Thom Rainier._

He was tossed onto the floor at the foot of her throne like he was a sack of laundry. He stumbled but managed to keep his feet and stood hunched over, examining the floor tiles as well as the bottoms of Clara’s boots. A large number had turned out to see how she would handle him, more than a few there surely just to see what terrible punishment she had in store. Even for all of the pardons she issued, such as Ser Ruth’s, there was a particular interest in her flair for the dramatic and cruel. Florianne sentenced to hard labour, the Mayor of Crestwood's execution, Erimond and the brand on his forehead, people gathered now to see a _show_.

Josephine spared everyone a rehashing of his crimes. Where the blood that couldn’t be washed off on Clara was only up to her elbows, he was _covered_ in it. Broken under the weight of command, she wondered if he ever heard those children he killed screaming. Perhaps when he got that faraway look on his face, the way his eyes drooped down, he was remembering the final moments of a family he had slaughtered.

He didn’t say _anything_ , even as she sat there, staring down at him. She waited, mocked him, let him answer and _nothing_. He was either owning up to what he had done or had given up completely. Then, he had the _gall_ to be _angry_ with her for dragging him out of that pit in Orlais. He was ready to accept his fate and pay for his crimes, why take him out now? He was _ready_ for an end however, not caring how it came.

Giving him to the Wardens had a kind of poetic justice to it, be the thing he had impersonated for so long. Keeping him with the Inquisition would save face, though, stop the knowledge that she had let someone on the run from the law into her ranks. Letting him go would maybe give him a better reason to keep living aside from the need to scrub off all of those lives.

She pardoned him, surprising herself and him both. It was hard for her to see the man he claimed he had been. Even behind that stolen armor, he was less Thom Rainier than he was Blackwall. Perhaps she saw too much of herself in the confusion on his face as he stood there. She wasn’t the monster she had been when all this started. He wasn’t either.

He left the hall a free man and Clara held her head after court was cleared. It was going to be a massive headache to appease the Orlesian nobility after releasing the man who had killed one of their own. Then again, the Orlesian nobility owed her for the fact that their empire was still standing. She made to leave the hall, waving away the nobles and people begging for an audience, only to get accosted by Vivienne and the family of her departed paramore. She listened as they held her for nearly an hour, fawning over the Inquisition before they left, Vivienne commending Clara on her ability to get Duke Bastien’s sour children to like her so. Nodding in agreement that someone liking her truly _was_ amazing, Clara left, eager for fresh air and perhaps a stiff drink.

Standing at the top of the steps, she could see a few Wardens together by a stall. They broke as Rainier wandered past, coming back together to watch him as he entered his loft in the barn. Shaking, her head, Clara walked down the steps, trying to put the judgment out of her mind. At the base, she could hear arguing, Solas and Cole having something that looked close to a fight.

Clara tried to calm Cole down while Solas stood by and watched her. He wouldn’t take it though, and insisted on being bound as if he were a demon. The thought itself was so strange, that he could want _that_ , but she remembered that _demons_ came from spirits. She had seen what he could be if someone shouted what he _wasn’t_ loudly enough until it was all he could hear. Cold despair, wandering around and sobbing as it wanted nothing more than to pull others down with it; _that_ was what he was afraid of.

So of _course_ she said yes when he requested that suggested amulet. She had a hard time saying no to him now, after all they had seen together. It was clear to see he was terrified and her heart nearly broke. She tried to calm him some more after finally accepting, but he seemed intent on working himself into a panic. Solas stayed with him while she left to summon the War Council.

It was assembled quickly, all of her advisors seeming eager for something. Josephine was preoccupied with the questions the nobles present at judgment had asked her, Leliana looked markedly more intense than usual and Cullen was watching her evenly over the map. Clara could feel the questions practically rolling off of him for releasing Rainier, but she was spared hearing him by the table between them.

Leliana was set to find the amulet for Cole while Cullen brought unrest over her judgment of Erimond to her attention. A small splinter of mages was afraid of what her making other mages Tranquil would mean. Josephine also alerted Clara to Ser Ruth and her fascination with ending her life, still. Nothing was ever _easy_ , and Clara set the two of them on fixing what her rulings had caused.

Josephine left without a look back, Leliana stayed behind to speak with Clara in private, and Cullen paused by the door, eyes looking at both women before he filed out. His coin pressed heavily against her chest. Leliana talked with the Inquisitor for a bit before asking her to visit her in the rookery later, preferably _before_ she retired to the Commander’s quarters. She left then too, leaving Clara there with her face burning. She wasn’t _that_ obvious with how much time she spent with Cullen.

Clara waited until she cooled off and was sure Leliana had walked out of the adjoining room before opening the doors and leaving. Cullen was waiting for her by one of the huge windows, staring out of the stained glass. He turned when the door creaked open, no smile cropping up on his face this time.

“Were you waiting for me?” Clara asked slowly, not breaking her eye contact as she closed the door.

“Yes,” he said with a nod, pushing away from the window to stand in front of her. One hand was gripping the pommel of his sword while the other one hovered awkwardly over her. It was clear he was so used to touching her he didn’t know what to do when he didn’t think he was supposed to.

“Is it about Rainier?” The name felt so odd in her mouth. She set a hand on his forearm, pushing it down. He resorted to grasping his sword pommel with both hands.

“I’m not questioning your authority, you’re the Inquisitor,” he started. “But why release him?” He didn’t look angry, but he _was_ upset. She didn’t think it was that Blackwall had been released, but that he had trusted him. Both had been soldiers and both knew what to have orders meant. Cullen had heard those echoes of Meredith when he read Thom Rainier’s crimes. Where Rainier had been the one to issue slaughter, Cullen had been the one to reject that command. This offense went deeper.

“He didn’t have to die,” she said evenly, turning to look up at him better. “If they had hanged him, it wouldn’t have been Thom Rainier dangling from the gallows.”

He frowned. “So who is he now?”

“I don’t know. He’s not Blackwall but he’s not Rainier.” She sighed, a hand coming up to rub at her scar. “It was too personal, Cullen. He changed, _I_ changed. This doesn’t feel like a second chance for him. More of a validation that the man who deserved to die isn’t around anymore.”

He peeled her hand away from her scar, his gloved thumb brushing over her mark. “You’re not like him,” she said sternly, like he _had_ to believe it.

“No. But I _was_.” _I could’ve done_ anything _to you._ She remembered the toys she broke, the books she ruined in the Circle. A knickknack from home crushed under her heel as the child watched, tricking others into fighting, the _terrible_ things she had said to those new kids who had been dragged in, fresh and crying. She had been cruel, a liar, bitter. Now she wasn’t.

He frowned at her, clearly unwilling to believe her. She found herself taking a small modicum of comfort in the way he trusted her so completely, the way he didn’t think she could do something so base and terrible. He was too genuine to be able to handle Blackwall’s deceit, and he definitely wouldn’t have been able to handle her. She had always asked him if her being a mage mattered, and the same way he had always said earlier it might’ve, him being a Templar would've. She could have chewed him up and spat him back out without a second thought. Her gut clenched sickly at the thought of hurting him now.

She just shook her head at him and reached up for a kiss. He let her, though there was still something behind his eyes she couldn’t quite grasp. It was a quick peck, chaste and fast, and soon he left for his office and she left to see Leliana.

Dorian captured Clara for a few moments as she climbed towards the rookery. He expressed his growing desire to spend time with her and she winced inwardly, noting how little she had seen him recently. She promised it would be soon, after she had seen Leliana. They could discuss what her spies had found out about red lyrium or read through the latest list of grievances that Solas had sent to Dorian.

He seemed content enough with that and she left to see Leliana. She was standing in front of the small chapel she kept and spoke of a letter that arrived for her from the late Divine. Not really giving Clara the option to wait, she took her to the stables where she had already prepared an escort. They were going to Valance, a cloister on the Waking Sea. Before departing, Clara grabbed a page and wrote a quick note to Dorian, apologizing for Leliana dragging her away. She also wrote another one for Cullen, a little longer and signed with just her name. _Maker_ , she was going to miss him.

They left promptly and arrived at Valence in nearly three days. The days of travel were somewhat awkward; Clara had never been too keen on idle chatter and Leliana was somewhere else. The nights were even worse and Clara found out how hard it was to sleep without Cullen there next to her. Reaching green demons mixed with _those_ dreams she had of him, leaving her shaking and wanting when she awoke.

The chantry itself was lovely with large columns and high arching ceilings. Peaceful. Leliana recounted how she arrived here after the blight, meeting the Divine when she was just a Revered Mother. Then Sister Natalie showed up and chatted with Leliana while Clara was forced to search for hidden levers and mechanisms. It was all very amicable, if not a bit frustrating, until that small sealed slot opened and Leliana pulled a knife on Natalie. Of _course_ she was a traitor, what other outcome was there? Nothing was ever _easy_ , just cut down the opposition.

Something had Clara staying Leliana’s hand, though. There was denial in Leliana’s eyes, her teeth set in anger as she dropped the Sister. Looking down at Natalie, a spark inside of Clara told her that she had been a hair’s breadth away from turning the chantry into a mausoleum had Leliana not been convinced otherwise.

The Sister was bullied into working for the Inquisition, a solution no one really seemed particularly happy about, but it worked. She stood there as Leliana opened that small chest, the emptiness in the box freeing her from service to the Divine coming loose as she watched it. Confusion wracked her, Clara offering what little comfort she knew how.

They left, Natalie in tow and arrived back at Skyhold four days later, a full week passing since they had ridden out. Leliana was alerted right away that the amulet had been found and that it had been sent to the Inquisitor’s desk. Leliana herself left Clara there at the gates, soldiers taking Natalie into custody so they could determine how best she could serve herself in the Inquisition.

Trying to decide between seeing Cullen, Dorian, or Cole with the amulet was difficult, but the need to see Cullen won out in the end. She took the stairs up to his office by two and broke into his office breathless, the late afternoon sun painting the inside orange. He turned as soon as she entered, that familiar smile lighting up his face.

Practically running to him, she threw her arms around his neck as tightly as she could. She had _missed_ him and she repeated it over and over into his shoulder when he pulled her up into the hug. She didn’t care about the fur she got in her mouth or the way she had practically jumped him, she didn’t realize how much she had loved him. There was something intensely different about them now, it was almost like their relationship had climbed to a different cliff, this one more intense and filled with the need to be together.

She pulled away from his neck as his hand came up to tug her hair out of its usual tight bun. “I missed you so much,” she murmured against his lips. She pressed a kiss to him, his mouth pulling up in a smile.

“I must say I do enjoy being greeted like this,” he said when she broke off. He lowered her until her feet touched the ground, shoes scraping against the stone. He still had that smile on his face, all of his features _lovely_. The stubble on his jaw was a few days old but the bags under his eyes were lighter, not as heavy and purple as they had been before.

“This is usually where you say you missed me _too_ ,” she pointed out.

He bent down and leaned his forehead against hers, his nose brushing hers as his eyes closed. “I missed you, Clara.”

She would never get tired of hearing him say her name. Her hands held his face while she kissed him again, this one longer and harder. She had missed the way his hands gripped her like she was a ship railing in a storm, the way he sighed out her name, the way his mouth slid easily with her own. The lyrium burn and armor polish smell that stuck with him all the time, his sincerity and gorgeous eyes, she loved every piece of him to bits.

His hands buried themselves in her hair, gently tugging on the strands in a way that had her moaning into the kiss. She broke off from him, half-smiling at the noise of disappointment he made and the way his stubble scraped her as he tried to capture her lips again.

“Not right now, I have to go and take care of a few things.” She brushed her nose against his again, his lips moving to press over her scar. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He gave a small chuckle before releasing her. “Alright. Just don’t leave so _quickly_ again.”

“Leliana is very persuasive,” she sniffed.

“I understand completely.”

She grinned up at him again, resisting the want to kiss him. If she gave in, she’d never get out of his warm little room. His hand sought her own and squeezed instead. It was a poor replacement for his lips, but it was still a small motion of intimacy that had her heart jumping

She left his room and wandered up to the library to apologise to Dorian. He didn’t seem particularly upset, but he _was_ disappointed. It was still novel that he both had someone he wanted to spend time with and who wanted that back. She resolved to see him after she gave the amulet to Cole.

Dorian said goodbye, but not before handing her another terrible novel, this one originating from Jader. She groaned but he just smirked at her and again said that if he had suffered, so should she. When she finally escaped him and made it to her room, she traded the smut novel for the amulet and went to find Cole.

He was by the tavern again, pacing. When he grabbed the amulet, he proclaimed it didn’t work, but he knew _why_. He ran, dragging Clara and Solas with him, Varric coming along for the ride because he felt _responsible_ for Cole just like Clara did.

He barely gave them time to get horses and provisions before they had to be away _right there_ , not leaving time for Clara to write more than a few lines of apology to Dorian and Cullen. He dragged them all the way to Hinterlands, up into Redcliffe where she saw his long, sad features twist with more hate than she knew possible. He wanted to _kill_ the Templar, and honestly, she couldn’t blame him. She gave him the choice and he made it when he looked to Varric, taking the offered crossbow and pulling the trigger.

He spared the man who had killed him, though. It was that majority of him shining through, the parts that were still _compassion_ and not _Cole_ that made him stay his hand. He left, sad and distinctly empty-looking as Varric comforted him, more human now than spirit. She wanted to say _something_ do anything for him, but she wasn’t someone for consolation. She was too rough, too hard to provide more than awkward words and little sympathy.

They left that night after Cole felt up for travel, the moon high and waning in the sky as they rode out, less at a breakneck pace than before. It was somber and subdued, both Varric and Solas letting Cole work through what he was feeling. Clara had the suspicion that it was more than he was used to.

They returned from the Hinterlands after the sun had set over the Frostbacks. It was dark save for the thin moon that hung overhead, practically outshined by the stars. She could see Fenrir tonight, the season appropriate, each star glittering brightly against the blue-black sky. She wasn’t tired enough to warrant going to sleep and she didn’t want to face Dorian yet, he’d probably hand her something appalling to read yet again and she could only handle so much terrible literature in her life. Adding to the fact that she had ran away without alerting Cullen yet again, she started the ascent to his room. She walked through the main hall this time, Solas not yet having returned to his spire, it was dark and empty, her shoes echoing loudly in the explicit silence. Perhaps he had stayed with Cole to console him or deter Varric from moving him further from his purpose. It didn’t matter either way; neither could really change Cole now.

It was windier up on the balustrade than it was down below, the tails of Clara’s coat flapping loudly against her legs as she made her way to his door. She opened it quietly, the warm heat of the room enveloping her as she closed it gingerly behind her. He was holding a meeting so she stood at the back of the room, dropped her coat onto the loveseat, waiting for him to finish.

Their eyes caught as a soldier left and a shiver ran down Clara’s spine at the _way_ he looked at her. It was heavy and dark, saturated with those nights they had spent desperately grabbing at each other. It was a look that said there wasn’t anyone else in the room, it was the look in his eyes when they were interrupted that night at the inn.

He dismissed the meeting soon after seeing her, locking the door behind the soldiers and notably not facing her. He confessed his fear for the future, of what would happen when all of _this_ was over. Would they still be there, would she still want him, would they still be _them_? He was asking in his own fumbling way if there was a future there between them, and Clara could feel his want for validation emboldening her, shifting the power more onto her shoulders.

 _Do you even need to ask?_ It was such a simple thing to say, more like a challenge than an admission of her own. He knew what he did to her, how she felt. It was ludicrous that he felt so unsure of himself that he wanted to hear her say it.

She was squeezed in between him and the desk, the closeness nearly electric as she fought to breathe in the lyrium-thick air. The _way_ he was looking at her, it was intense and heavy, beautiful brown eyes flicking around her face. His mouth was set strangely, his lips pressed together and drawn. Eyes flicking down to his hands, she saw they were clenched hard like he was _restraining_ himself from grabbing her. Trying to get a better grip on the desk and her fluttering gut, she grappled with the edge of the table and knocked a bottle off, wine and glass shards spattering along the side of her left boot.

Her breathing stopped as she looked up at his face. Those lovely eyes flicked from her to the broken glass to the rest of his desk and he grew a _look_ that twinkled right behind his eyes. He swept his arm across the top of his desk, the contents crashing to the ground. Strong hands grabbed her by the hips and lifted her onto the desk, Cullen climbing up with her, _that smile_ on his face.

He settled on top of her, her own face splitting in a grin as he pressed a kiss to her scar, then down her cheek, the corner of her jaw. With his hands holding her, their hips pressed together, it was just like something out of her foggy dreams. She held him closer to her neck, his lips hot against her flushed skin. It was all so surreal, something she never really thought she’d experience; she figured she’d end up dying frustrated and wanting but his thigh was pressed firmly between her legs, his hips already rolling small circles against her own. A small moan squeezed itself out of her when he bit down on the part of her neck he had succeeded in exposing, her hips jumping suddenly against him.

“You sure about this?” Clara asked breathlessly. She kissed the part of his face she could reach, her teeth tugging gently on his earlobe.

The groan he rumbled into her neck had her rubbing her hips against him harder, gut forming a tight coil too quickly, her whole body feeling liable to snap. He pulled himself away from her neck, face flushed and eyes searching. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

She forced a kiss by way of an answer, their teeth clacking together as she held his head to her. Her nails scrabbled at the back of his armor and that kiss took everything up. The air was too thick to breathe, suddenly. It was all _him_ , lyrium and sweat and armor polish and then he was sitting up and pulling her with him.

Dizzy, she remembered how dressed they both were. Her hair was loose around her, when had he tugged the elastic out? The hungry want to peel back those layers of armor grabbed her by the gut and had her slapping his hands away from unbuttoning her shirt, the top already falling open.

He broke off from her neck and looked about to say something until she started tugging his gloves off. She _needed_ his hands on her, skin-on-skin, she _needed_ his nails to press into her back, her thighs, her hips. The gloves came off easily and she let him finish unbuttoning her shirt, his fingers fumbling in his haste to push her shirt away.

His mouth was on her neck again, hips rocking steadily into her as she sat on the edge of the desk. His erection pressed hard against her, thick and hot as she pictured how he would feel inside of her, hard and throbbing. Each moan he made at the roll of their hips was impressed into her skin, her eyes squeezing shut at the sensation. She tried to push his mantle away, the folds of cloth shoving off of his shoulders as he finished the clasps on her shirt.

His hands found her breasts still held back by her supporter, thumbs brushing over each one. A strangled noise pulled itself out of Clara’s throat, his hands so hot against her skin it burned her. Everything was too warm but she wouldn’t trade it for anything else, breasts tight and body aching for his touch. The _way_ he grabbed her had her moaning his name as he trailed his mouth over her chest, teeth following each hard kiss.

It was _too much_. Her hands fisted themselves in his hair, pulling his mouth up to her own. She kissed him hard, more teeth and wanting than anything. He had her pressed solidly against the desk, hips rocking harder now and she could scream with frustration and anticipation. Everything became _please_ in her head, and she found herself breathing it between kisses. Her mind had stopped working, that thick lyrium cloud of his crushing everything but the need for him to be pressed up inside her, the need to hear him say her name as they rocked together, the need for her hands to run over every part of him she had missed.

They broke apart, both fumbling for the buckles on the other’s belt. Distantly, Clara figured it would’ve been funny to see how desperate and handsy they both were, but right there, all she she could think about was how fast she could push his pants away. She was practically on fire, her skin burned and when she finally managed to loose his pants she went to her own, slapping Cullen’s hands away again because he wasn’t _fast_ enough.

She got the buckle undone _finally_ , pulling her belt off and tossing it onto the wine-soaked ground by his own. One of his hands lifted her while the other one pulled everything down to her boots. She held onto him, dizzy as his hand dug into her, hard. He nearly dropped her back onto the desk, her ass thumping down almost painfully. He fought with her boots, cursing quietly when he couldn’t just rip them off without her landing on the floor.

He managed, though, to get one free and then the other came off more easily, her pants and smalls tossed to the side. All at once he was back in her arms, his nose bumping her own as he pushed his pants further down his hips. His fingernails scraped against her hips as he pressed his fingers against her, a desperate noise tearing out of her throat as she grinded shamelessly against him.

Another _please_ slipped out of her throat and he groaned again, a strangled _Maker_ coming out as he pressed his fingers into her harder, faster, more insistent. His forehead leaned against her own, lips brushing together, Clara barely able to form a sentence as she rocked against his hand, _pleasepleaseplease_ , she _needed_ this so badly her skin was burning her alive.

She gripped impatiently at the collar of his plates, arching her chest into the cold metal. Regret at not getting him completely exposed gnawed at her but it left as soon as his fingers did and he was pressing himself inside of her. Every nerve in her was alight; it was all she could do to bury her face in his shoulder and stop from crying out too loudly as he rocked roughly into her.

The plates on his chest were hard against her, her breasts still covered. Every grind into her had her groaning his name in increasing volume. The hand not braced on the desk behind her held her body to him, his stubble scraping her face as she rolled her hips in time with his own. It was _too much_ , she couldn’t breathe, it had been too long and she’d spent too many nights in frustration, grinding in his lap while she cried out his name, seeking release that never came.

She turned her head to the side, pressing desperate kisses into his skin, her name passing his own lips at each scrape of her teeth. They rocked harder together, rough grinds and stuttering jumps of their hips, moans desperate and urgency thick as that ache in her gut tightened until she was drawn tense as a bow string. Legs tight around him, she suddenly remembered the two unlocked doors and the noises they made, flushing even harder at the thought that someone could walk in, her entire body clenching.

She was whimpering that _please_ again, sure she needed to come or else she’d _die_ right there on his desk. His hips snapped against hers, harder than before and she knew it was almost over. She felt the hand bracing himself slip between her legs and she tensed immediately, the sensation overcoming her as she shuddered against him. The world blurred as she squeezed her eyes shut again, her scream of his name muffled in her ears as she rode it out against him.

His shudder of relief shook her as he held her close, following her over the edge as they both shook in the aftershocks. They leaned against each other like that against his desk, her fingers carding through his sweat-soaked hair as she panted into his neck. He swallowed hard and pressed a shaky kiss to her shoulder before nuzzling his nose against her skin.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for that,” she breathed against him, her lips brushing his jaw.

His chuckle rumbled through them both, a soft moan pulling out of Clara at it. “I feel the same way.”

She moved him to kiss her and it was long and _wonderful_ , mouths sliding lazily together. His arms tightened around her and he lifted her away from the desk and shattered glass, placing her down on the tiles not covered with wine. He pulled his pants back up around his hips and she remembered how eager she had been to press herself all along him, how they’d never managed to peel each other’s clothes off.

Frowning, she stepped around him and gathered up her discarded clothes, face burning as she felt his eyes on her, his question of _what are you doing_ half-hanging in the thick air. Walking back to him, she grabbed his hands and tugged him towards his ladder, climbing up with her clothes in hand. Embarrassment at knowing he was watching her stopped her from looking to see if he’d followed, but she heard his heavy footsteps thunk against the ground of his loft and she sighed, relief washing over her.

She dropped her clothes to the ground and turned to face him, a hand anxiously holding her shirt closed. “I want to stay here,” she said boldly, the words sounding so much more ridiculous in the air than in her head.

He stepped closer and his hands hovered around her, eyes suddenly unsure. “I don’t want you to leave.”

She nodded her head, knot of suddden apprehension loosening somewhat, and released her shirt, her arms reaching up to wrap around his neck. Her lips pressed against his sweetly, his stubble scraping against her chin. Then she broke away and started undoing the straps on his armor, her hands more deft now that she wasn’t rocking incessantly against him, all need and urgency. She had seen him peel off all of these layers so many times before that she figured she could do it in her sleep. After each plate came off he kissed her, his hands heavy on her hips as he held her to him.

Slowly, she got him down to his shirt and trousers, the remnants of his armor piled on the ground around him. Each piece that fell was a press of his mouth against her, a scrape of his stubble against her skin. She paused when her fingers were at the hem of his shirt, suddenly nervous about seeing him for the first time. Not even an hour ago she’d been screaming his name against his desk and here she was, afraid of what he would do when she peeled away that last piece between them.

Sex was familiar, she knew it, she’d had it so many times before but now she was so afraid to _disappoint_ him. She was afraid to do something wrong and she was afraid of how pliant she was in his hands and how she loved him so much it nearly hurt.

She pulled it off boldly, trying to forget her fear, and sighed, looking at him. There was gold hair spread across his chest, a thick line that disappeared into his breeches. He had scars beyond count, one especially large, a thick rope that cut along the middle of his chest, and a small birthmark by his navel. A few freckles dotted the skin on his shoulders and she couldn’t resist landing small open kisses there, the press of their bodies so much warmer than she had imagined.

His arms pulled her tightly to him as he stepped out of his shoes. Her nails dragged down his back, feeling as much of his skin as she could while she made her way to push his pants down his hips. He shuffled them off while his hands pushed her shirt away from her then held her in place. His thumbs slid under her breast band and she sighed, leaning up to kiss him. It was long and hard, intense enough to leave them both gasping when they broke to pull her clothes off completely.

She stood there, naked and pressed all along him as they held each other, swaying gently in the middle of the loft. It was calm and intimate, somehow so much more than she could have ever wanted. It was better than all of her dreams put together, he was _here_ and in her arms and neither was frustrated or upset over the other being gone. She was all red hair and freckles and malice but he still held her tightly, afraid to let her go, just as she held him. He was so _real_ , hard and golden in her arms.

He got a better grip on her and lifted her up to his height, her toes barely scraping the ground as he carried her over to the bed. He set her down on her feet in front of it and she sat down, crawling back and pulling him down after her. His body covered hers completely, their chests pressed together as they wrapped their arms around each other again. Gentle kisses and wandering hands were all that she thought about as she trailed her lips along his jaw and neck. He made the most wonderful noises when she bit at his pulse point, soothing the sharpness of her teeth with her tongue. The _way_ he said her name had her hips rolling against his leg again, this time not bothering to curb the sounds she made.

Just holding each other close while they traced every curve of the other was better than she had thought it would be. His mouth pressed those hot open kisses she loved down her chest and over her breasts, each freckle on her body dark against her pale skin and he managed to graze every single one. Her fingers combed over every part of his back, each scar feeling different, some so old and faded, just like the ones on his hands. It was more intimate than she had ever been with another person and she felt the adoration in his lips so starkly she was giddy with it.

Soon his fingers were trailing down her stomach and between her legs, brushing against the inside of her thighs, a silent question. She opened wider for him, let him press into her and she let out a sigh, one of her hands going down to correct him. He listened and didn’t let it deter him, soon having her gasping his name and rolling herself into his hand.

He didn’t resist when she pushed him over onto his back so she could sit astride his hips. She sank down in his lap, hips fitting together perfectly as she leaned over and braced herself on the bed, hands fisting in the sheets Catching his mouth with her own, she rocked in time with him. It was so much _better_ than she could have thought, a slow burn that started in her gut and spread out into her limbs until she was shaking. His hands held her hips in rhythm as she looked down at him, stretching to kiss but too caught up to do more than lean their foreheads together.

They rolled again so she was leaning on the bed, Cullen above and pushing into her hard. The mattress felt like it was swallowing her, she couldn’t hear anything beyond her own cries of his name and the creaking of the bed frame. He bent down, breathing shallowly and biting down on her neck as he _grinded_ into her, his name pulling itself shuddering from her lips.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched up into him, trying to press closer than their skin would allow. She needed _closer_ , needed to never have to let him go. She didn’t want to spend time away from that lyrium thrum around him or his burning sincerity or the way he practically glowed like the sun. Neither of them were perfect, but when she was in his arms, she felt _better_ than she was, more complete and less like _Inquisitor_ , more like Clara.

When she came she could’ve sworn she saw stars, her vision going spotty and her legs aching as they tightened almost painfully around his hips. She felt his release, heard it when he moaned her name into her neck, the way his arms shook around her, everything so much louder than she thought it would be. He was heavy on top of her, both of them catching their breath in the hot air of the room. Distantly, she heard the scream of wind outside the hole in his roof, but she didn’t care about anything more than him pressed against her, their bodies searing together as he panted.

Her fingers brushed through his hair just as they had before and he hummed in response, a slight laugh shaking in his chest. “Something funny?” she asked lightly but her voice was raw. She cleared her throat, the flush of her skin darkening.

“I’m just happy,” he murmured into her neck, rolling them so they were lying next to each other.

Her leg came up easily over his hip as she wriggled closer, burrowing herself in the warmth of his embrace. “I am too,” she said quietly, surprising herself with the statement. _Happy_. He made her _happy_. She grinned, hard, and hid her face in his neck. He chuckled again and she could feel his own smile as he kissed her head, a strong hand rubbing her scalp.

She _was_ happy around him. It was such a simple thing to think yet it was so _good_. She wanted to be with him, wanted whatever future being with him would mean. She could take it all if it meant just being with him like this, lying together, slowly slipping asleep. He had changed so much for and about her. That thick lyrium thrum burned a different memory into her skin, erasing those cold Templars with burning shields and replacing them with him, his name, his fingertips, his eyes. He wasn’t a Templar and lyrium didn’t burn her in a bad way anymore, it was Cullen, Cullen, _Cullen_.

* * *

 

She woke up the next morning first, surprisingly. They were both sticky with sweat, her skin stinging as she peeled herself off, careful not to wake him. It was warm in the sunlight that filtered in, the dust motes she had upset glittering faintly in the pale golden air.

Clara stood, body aching but it was _pleasant_ , better than she had thought it would be. There was a sweetness in knowing it was because of him, finally, and it was good to sleep the night through without those dreams of his hands scratching at her. She looked back down at him, remembering the night before, a blush creeping up her back. He was beautiful, all golden hair and scars. Somehow, she had known he would look like that but getting to run her fingers over him was so much better.

Sighing, she searched for her clothes and dressed quickly, sitting on the edge of his bed and tugging her boots on. She was thinking of the diplomats she’d have to meet with later when she heard him cry out, the mattress shaking. It felt like her heart was breaking when he woke up confused, those demons still clawing at the corners of his eyes.

Her heart _did_ break when he confessed how bad the nightmares got. It was even worse when he didn’t seem that troubled by it, like it happened all the time. She figured it did. Looking down at him, she couldn’t think of anything more beautiful than him. He was wonderful and _hers_ , someone she was sure she didn’t deserve but would die knowing she loved with every piece of her heart.

And she told him. _I love you_ slipped out so easily it was ridiculous how hard it had even been to think it before. The smile that spread gradually across his face made all of those months of burning and pining worthwhile, to _see_ the realization that she loved him light up across his features. Oh, it _killed_ her to think he didn’t know before, didn’t surmise it from all of her touches and confessions of trust and intimacy. He was just as unsure as she was, but when he said he loved her back they were more even, the ground more solid. It was _good_ , better than perfect, _real_.

She kissed him one last time, eyes open to see the way his face scrunched up in concentration when he kissed her. Her hair was still loose and fell over her shoulder, his hand brushing it back when she pulled away, a promise to see him later that night coming out. With no small amount of regret, she got up and climbed down the ladder, the last glimpse she got of him before she disappeared past the loft of a smile on his face as he leaned back into his pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, this was entirely self-indulgent. I haven't written anything like this in a _long_ time, let me tell you. So really, please tell me how it went, I'm kinda afraid how it all read.
> 
> edit: whoops, i forgot to fix the spacing!


	15. J'ai besoin de toi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His lips brushed over her collarbone, arms tight around her as he held on. He was so much larger than she was, it had felt ridiculous at first when he cuddled up to her like this. But now, it was honestly hard to find a different way to hold him. They felt _better_ in each other’s arms.

Leliana thanked her for helping her to see that she didn’t have to be as others had made her. She might have been the left hand of the Divine, a mirror of Cassandra, everything the Seeker wasn’t willing to be, but when she was cut away she didn’t have to be that ruthless opposite. She had been hardened by all of those years, the woman who had been there when the Hero of Ferelden ran the Archdemon through wasn’t the one who lived in the Inquisition’s rookery now.

Ten years can force someone to be so many different people. Clara felt a small amount of vain pride and satisfaction for helping make Leliana less of a fist and more of an open palm. It was base to be pleased to have affected someone else so profoundly, especially someone so much older than herself. She left Leliana, both women smiling and mulling over her Spymaster’s declaration that the Chantry had to change.

Clara walked down the stairs slowly, legs and back still sore. Memories of the night before played like a light show behind her eyes and she flushed darkly, hands and voices both equally loud in her head. Swallowing thickly as she reached the bottom stair, she reminded herself to send a page to scrub the wine stain off of Cullen’s floor.

“You’ve done a very good job at avoiding me.”

Clara jumped, felt her skin freeze over and her heart stutter and then double up. Little goosebumps sprouted on her skin and her head snapped to the side, looking at who had spoken so suddenly. “Andraste’s _ass_ , Dorian, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

He pushed off from the doorframe and wandered over, all smirks and amused eyes. “You look remarkably like a friend of mine, I must say. The resemblance is uncanny.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry for not telling you I was leaving again but Cole made us leave _right then_.”

“In fact, back there, I actually thought you _were_ her for a moment. That is, until I remembered she never had her hair down and was always scowling.” He stood in front of her, watching with his head tilted to the side. His eyes flicked down and that smirk grew wicked, her face starting to burn as she put a hand to her throat. “She never had _that_ , either,” he said frankly, pointing to what was surely a bite mark Cullen had left on her neck.

“Do this here and I’ll never speak to you again,” she warned, eyes narrowing. She tugged on the collar of her shirt, flush creeping down her neck.

“Well you hardly speak to me as it is,” he said airily with a wave of his hand. “But I understand that you’re probably very sorry for avoiding me, and I accept your apology.”

Clara looked at him for a moment, briefly thought about yanking on the end of his mustache until it came free, but squashed the urge down. “You’ve got to be the biggest _ass_ I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing, but you know that already.”

He was just grinning at her and didn’t answer, smiling until she sighed in exasperation and squeezed out a _sorry_ that sounded more genuine than she would have liked. He took it and invited her to speak with him in his little spot, he had found something she might find interesting about spirits. She couldn’t say _no_ , nor did she really actually want to spend time with anyone else at the moment. Speaking with Dorian was nice, stimulating, familiar and something that reminded her that there were so _many_ things to know that weren't troop movements or nobles' titles.

They stayed together in the library, arguing about the different types of spirits, until they both stood to find a book to put the issue to rest.

“I do wonder, though,” Dorian interjected, filling the silence left by Clara as she searched for a specific book in the library, “why your clothes appear more… _rumpled_ than usual.”

She could hear the wicked edge in his voice, knew the way he was prying for information without actually saying it outright. “They feel perfectly fine to me,” she said pleasantly, dragging her fingers down the spine of one of the books.

“There also appears to be a _wine stain_ on the left boot as well.” He sidestepped into her vision and looked pointedly down at her feet.

“They spent the evening on Cullen’s floor,” she said, not giving him the satisfaction of looking at him. She opened the book and peered into it, sighing as she felt him waiting for more. “Along with the rest of my clothing.”

Clara didn’t have to look up at his face to know how he was smiling. He practically exuded that smug arrogance he cultivated so well over his idealism and intense love of hearing gossip. “You’re being oddly forward about this,” he said in a way that told her he didn’t really want the details of her sex life.

“I figured you weren’t going to leave me alone until I told you,” she said into the book, face burning.

“Well I’m always interested in what’s going on with you but you’re usually so damn closed off.” He leaned against the bookshelf and turned his head, eyes searching. “Why the sudden change?”

Clara closed the book and looked at him, eyes scanning his face for any hint of insincerity. That was the thing with Dorian, though: he was _always_ sincere, however hidden it was by those layers of wit. He was _there_ , someone who cared beneath that shiny veneer of sarcasm and detachment. It was hard for her to remember that he meant well in the end, even if he was insufferable on the way.

“You asked,” she said blankly.

“Yes, but you never _tell_.”

She shrugged, thinking back to Cullen’s face when she had said she loved him. The happiness she remembered there in his lovely eyes had her smiling, grinning like a fool as she blushed and looked at the bookshelf. “Last night was different.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you comfortable discussing this?”

“Truthfully?” she said, breathless. “I don’t know. This feels like the sort of thing friends are supposed to discuss.”

“I must admit I’m… not so sure, really. Discussing sexual proclivities isn’t exactly something I’m accustomed to.” He looked down at her feet, voice somewhat unsure.

“Right, right, Maker’s _breath_ ,” she said, moving to cover her embarrassment with the book in her hand. The room was suddenly too hot and awkward for her to breathe in properly. “Of course, just… shit, do you _want_ to?”

He cleared his throat and seemed to regain most of his usual composure. “Well anything you can tell me that can distract him during our chess match later would be useful,” he responded lightly.

She would thank any deity that happened to listen that he decided to brush it off like that. This was unsure ground and she wasn’t even sure if she _wanted_ him to know that much about her at this point. She wasn’t even sure if he had known she was spending her nights in frustrated wanting or if he had just assumed she’d slept with Cullen sooner. If she was being honest with herself, he probably didn’t wonder at all past contributing to the gossip that bled through the keep. There was something comforting in that.

“That might be considered cheating,” she answered, placing the book back on the shelf and browsing along the titles.

“It would depend on your definition of cheating. I like to think of it as _advanced strategy_.”

Clara grinned privately to herself, wondering if Cullen would be embarrassed or too focused on the game to actually notice. “I can’t believe you think embarrassing the Commander of my forces is a sure way to win a game.”

“It would wipe that smug smile off his face every time he won.” He made a huffing noise and picked a book off the shelf.

“ _‘Smug smile’_ he says!” she exclaimed with a snort. “Dorian, I’ve only seen you with a serious expression perhaps twice, and _one_ was when the tavern was out of that wine you love so much.”

“It’s different when I’m smug, _I’m_ charming,” he sniffed.

“Cullen is _very_ charming, for your information.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s all very well for you, it’s clear how sick with it he is, but for everyone else it’s torture.”

She couldn’t help the smile that cropped up. It was large and almost painful as she tried to cram it down and out of sight, but Dorian saw it and delighted in his success. He seemed to get a sick sort of enjoyment out of embarrassing her just enough that she wouldn’t be liable to leave him but would be quietly burning.

Dorian occupied her time until he left for the gardens. Somewhat unsure of what to do next, she went to her room and bathed, skin tight with old sweat and the feeling of Cullen’s hands on her. She ended up going over more letters Josie had left her, a few more embarrassing than others until sundown came and dinner was called. She contemplated going alone and instead made her way to Cullen’s office, face growing hotter as she approached. The wind wasn’t as loud as it had been the night before, the memory of her coat flapping around her feeling nearly a thousand years ago. Everything felt different, even as she knocked on the door to his office before opening it quietly, yet nothing had really _changed_.

He was behind his desk again, armor off as he polished it, the finished pieces sitting in an orderly line across his desk. She could see a few dark spots on his neck, remnants of her mouth on his throat. His head turned to look at her as she entered, a small smudge of polish on his face glimmering when he gave her that smile that crinkled his eyes.

She felt a small smile spring onto her face in response. “Hey,” she murmured, coming up to stand next to him. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek, his stubble lightly scratching against her lips.

He turned his head and brushed his lips against her own. “I’m glad you came by,” he said softly, that smile still on his face.

“You miss me?” she asked lightly, shooing his hands away so she could climb onto the chair with him.

“I was just thinking about you, actually.” He put the rag and piece of armor down, his arms wrapping around her in a tight hug. “A runner asked about the wine stain on the floor.” He nuzzled his nose against her cheek, eyes closing as skin brushed over skin.

“And what did you tell them?” she asked, grabbing his face in her hands so she could pepper kisses over it.

“I said the Inquisitor couldn’t hold her liquor.” He laughed at his own joke, chuckling harder when she heaved a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes at him.

She pressed a fast kiss to his lips. “That was _horrible_ , Cullen.”

He kissed her again, this one longer and more drawn out, the kind that left her heart beating too fast and her gaze heavy. _Maker_ , it had been hard being away from him, but even more so now. Those memories of her stretched out next to him played over and over in her head like a flipbook, the _desire_ to just lie there pressed up against him so much stronger than anything else to her. She wanted nothing more than to sleep _with_ him, _next_ to him, it didn’t matter so long as they were wrapped around each other when they woke up.

“I came in here to ask if you wanted to get dinner,” she said as he trailed his mouth over her jaw. “I’m not so sure I’m hungry anymore, though.”

He undid a few of the buttons on her top, pulling her shirt away from her neck to show the marks he had left the night before. He breathed a burning _Maker_ against her skin, leaning his forehead against her own, the look on his face saying it was too much already.

“I love you,” she whispered, eyes sliding shut. She pressed her lips to his again, this kiss long but superficial, nothing more than the need for closeness.

He broke off and pressed a kiss to her scar. “I love you too,” he murmured, lips forming a line of kisses down her face until he placed a peck over her mouth. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

“You need to take care of yourself more.” Sighing, she pried herself away from him, standing up and cracking her joints. She grabbed him by the hand and tugged. “We can eat alone tonight.”

He stood and gave her that half-smile. “I’d like that,” he said, face happy, as he gathered her up in his arms and held her tightly, breathing in as he buried his face in her hair. Her own arms were wrapped around his neck, tight as she could manage as she tried to pull herself closer against him. She could feel his heart beat heavily against her chest, his coin caught between them. It was thick and strong, a steady rhythm that had them both swaying slightly until he finally let her go, a sheepish grin and a blush spreading out over his face.

They both walked out onto the battlements, blackening sky hazy overhead as the stars shimmered dully through the cloud cover. His hand was held firmly in her own, the maid Clara stopped staring for a moment before her attention snapped back to the Inquisitor, the instructions to bring something from the tavern up to his quarters leaving with her as the couple continued on their way. When they arrived at that spot Cullen had kissed her at all those months ago, they stopped and pressed closely together in the fumbling dark. She was jammed into the balustrade again, back bending as he kissed her urgently. It was _fun_ , exciting, something that left her breathless and with the want to giggle like a kid. Cullen had that effect on her; he made everything so much _easier_.

They talked, idle things. He mentioned Dorian’s feeble attempt at embarrassment to win their match, but it was to no avail. Though, Clara surmised, Cullen had probably been as red a tomato. She told him about his brief attack in the library, leaving out his lapse of surety. It was all so simple, nice conversation that she didn’t have to think about.

When they made it back to his office, a jug of wine and a basket of various stuffs was on his desk. Clara sat on the edge of the desk, same place as she had the night before and took a small delight in the blush that spread on Cullen’s face whenever he glanced up from sorting through the basket to look at her. A few pieces of bread, a wedge of cheese, and various dried objects were laid out on his desk shortly, Cullen snorting at the sheer amount of it all.

“I should’ve been clearer that I didn’t want half the larder,” Clara commented as he sat down in his chair, heel of bread in hand.

He chuckled around the chunk he had bitten off. “I’ll bring the rest of it back tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?” she asked, eyebrow raising. She cut off a piece of dried sausage and chewed it slowly, watching him.

“I wasn’t thinking we were going to leave my office tonight,” he said, looking at her sideways. He reached over for the sausage and cut himself a piece.

Her lips pulled into a small smile. “Not unless you want to.”

His answering grin was wicked and bright, indicative of that strange confidence he got when she reassured him that she wanted him, wanted to be with him. She hopped off the desk and sat down in his lap, her legs draped over the arm of his chair. One of his hands dragged itself over her legs, eyes closing as he massaged the muscles there. She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder, nose brushing over his neck.

They held each other like that for what felt like hours to her. She couldn’t help kissing him in between those pieces of food they gave each other, his mouth tasting heavy and spiced like the sausage and wine. His thumb always brushed over her lips at each bite he gave her, a quick peck every time their eyes met. It was warm and close and so _good_ , every moment she spent with him just seemed to get better than the last. She never thought she’d feel so safe with a Templar, but then again, he wasn’t one anymore. He was all Ferelden brown eyes and scarred hands and burning sincerity, the thrum of old lyrium background noise to how much she loved him.

It all devolved into mouths and wandering hands after they’d eaten enough. She was straddling his lap, hips grinding insistently as he held her hard against him. The room was so thick it felt like she was swimming, her head light as he moaned into her mouth. She _loved_ him, it felt like a mantra in her skull: _I love you, I love you, I_ love _you._ It rang out with each button on her shirt that he undid, each gasp she fed to him as his warm hands pressed against the over-heated skin of her chest. _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou--_

She broke away from him, her eyes closed and hips still rolling in his lap, the anticipation too much as she just tried to breathe. Their foreheads were pressed together, faces dark as he held her to him. When she opened her eyes, he was looking up at her and just the way his eyes were focused on her, the way they slid over every part of her face, shivers ran down her back.

Any other night, any time before last night, it would’ve stopped there, the both of them searching in frustrated warmth, but it was _different_ now. There wasn’t anything between them now, she was more comfortable around him now than she ever thought she could’ve been with another person. So it wasn’t any surprise when he mouthed _bed?_ at her, but it still made her fingertips tingle with anticipation and perhaps the slightest bit of magic.

He stood with her still wrapped around his hips, his hands holding her up and tossing her over his shoulder so he could climb the ladder to his loft. She squealed at the feeling of being thrown like a sack, the motion so effortless for him. Her fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, the fear of falling very real and very exciting. It was like she weighed _nothing_ , the idea that he could do this so easily exhilarating because he never held her too tightly, never hurt her. He was _safe_.

At the top of the ladder, he nearly threw her onto the bed, tossing her down so she bounced up with a laugh. He followed her onto the mattress and finished the buttons on her shirt while she tugged his own off. Her nails scraped over his chest, gold hair thick between her fingers. His skin was so _warm_ , it was so different from her own cold hands. The muscles under those scars and sparse freckles jumped at the cold contact, the inadvertent iciness of her fingertips making him shiver against her.

He had been trailing kisses down her neck, mouth hot as he bit again at all those places he had last night. His lips were _wonderful_ , she couldn’t get enough of the feeling of them on her skin, not after all of those months of waiting and waiting and _wanting_. He was in just as deep as she was, held her just as tightly as she did, was attached just like she was.

Their clothes came off quickly, both far too eager and flushed to spend those hours kissing like they had the night before. This time was faster, harder as he pressed into her. Her nerves felt alive, body stretching to kiss his lips at each roll of his hips. It felt like she was burning up, every hard way he stretched her and snapped back inside darkening her vision and loosening her control. She gave up gripping the sheets in favor of his hands, both of them not bothering to keep quiet. There had been too many months of frustration and silence and she wanted people to _know_. She was his and he was hers, all of her, she didn’t need any of it, all she wanted was him, the good _and_ the bad.

She didn’t know if it would ever be enough, the way she could feel a few tears squeezing themselves free when she came or the way he called out her name as his pace stuttered and he settled, heavy on top of her. She could spend years carding her fingers through the tight curls of his hair with her legs wrapped tightly around his hips, she was sure of that. She would never get tired of the way he always pillowed his head on her breasts, the act so much more now that they were skin-on-skin. His stubble scraped at her and she could feel slight shivers shaking him as she dragged her cold fingers over his skin, trying to get her magic under control.

His lips brushed over her collarbone, arms tight around her as he held on. He was so much larger than she was, it had felt ridiculous at first when he cuddled up to her like this. But now, it was honestly hard to find a different way to hold him. They felt _better_ in each other’s arms.

“It feels like you’ve been waiting for that all day,” she commented, tugging lightly on his hair so he’d turn for a kiss.

“I could say the same to you,” he replied, lips brushing over her own.

Her mouth twitched up into a smile as she shimmied down in his arms to be more on level with him. “You’d be completely right.”

He blushed on top of the redness already left on his face, the color deepening as he gave her a lopsided grin. He kissed her in earnest then, mouth sliding easily over her own as their limbs tangled together, heavy and lazy. He grinned against her lips, stubble scratching at her face as he rubbed his jaw against her. It was all so _familiar_ , so much different than she had felt about him over a year ago when she had to look at him over the war table, fear and hatred bleeding together in an ugly mess that slogged through her body.

He finally broke away in favor of just rubbing their faces together, noses smushed between them. “I never thought it would be like this,” he commented, voice quiet.

“How do you mean?” she asked, eyes closed as she moved to brush her lips over his scar.

“You with me. Like _this_ ,” he repeated. He squeezed her even more tightly for a second to drive the point of their closeness home.

“I tried not to.” She sighed into his skin then pulled away to look at him. “It wasn’t… I didn’t _want_ it. Not at first.”

His brow creased, confusion flashing through those lovely eyes. “What do _you_ mean?”

“I _hated_ you,” she said frankly. “I couldn’t stand looking at you in Haven. Cassandra made me talk to you and all I tried to do was embarrass you.”

“It _worked_ ,” he murmured before propping himself up on his elbow. “Did something change?”

She sighed and rolled more onto her back, tangled hair pulling slightly. “ _Me?_ I’m not sure, to be honest. Everything came at once and then I was spending more time with you and I couldn’t seem to figure out why I started sweating whenever you were around.”

His answering chuckle pulled her own from her. “I never noticed you were nervous. Then again, I was afraid of doing something wrong with my hands or saying anything that would push you away.”

“That was _endearing_ , Cullen.” She sighed again and looked at the hole in his ceiling. “It’s good to know you were just as big of a mess as I was.”

They were silent for a time, Cullen wrapping his arms around her from behind, pulling her against his chest. He kicked the covers over them both, his lips just brushing slowly over the back of her neck, a solid comfort behind her. He was too sweet for her, she _needed_ him to know how she had felt about him before, her guts felt sick, like she was keeping it from him.

“I was afraid of you, you know,” she said quietly, her fingers laced with his own. One of his arms was across her breasts, the other one draped over her hips, keeping her pressed tightly against him.

His lips stopped their soft motion but she could still feel how close he was in the heat of his breath as his lips ghosted over the fine hairs there. “I would never hurt you.”

The way he said it nearly killed her again; _everything_ about him nearly killed her. How happy he seemed to be with her, his belief in her, the way he held her, his hands, his eyes, his mouth, the way he fit her so well, it was all so much more than she deserved. He didn’t apologize, he didn’t ask why because he _knew_ why, Templar had been screaming so loudly in her head for so many years it was impossible to miss. He just tried to reassure her of what she already knew: he would _never_ hurt her.

“What if I was an abomination?” she asked, voice _oh so_ soft. She still needed to _push_ , that old urge to drag others to their limits throbbing strong inside of her chest.

“You already asked me that.” His voice had a hard edge, one that said more than words could.

“You said I didn’t know the answer. I hope I do, though.” She squeezed his fingers with her own again, her other hand brushing over her scar, the memory of cutting swords still so fresh nearly six years later.

“I _can’t_ answer that,” he said softly, upset, pained. She could hear that _Please, don’t make me answer that_ , but it was alright. He was stronger than that, he could admit when he was wrong but he couldn’t say it aloud when he knew he would do what had to be done.

“I’d want it to be you, if it came to that,” Clara said plainly. “If that happened, it _won’t_ , but if it _did_ , I’d want it to be you.”

He was so still behind her, barely even breathing. “Why?”

“You wouldn’t let me hurt anyone. You wouldn't _want_ to do it. I _trust_ you, Cullen.” She struggled to turn around in his grasp so she could face him. When she finally _did_ , her chest melted at the sight of his face. He was looking at her heavily, eyes dark and eyebrows pulled tightly together. She managed to bring a hand up to his face, her thumb gently grazing over his cheek. She _had_ to have control over this, the terror of becoming an abomination having faded out over the years, but that old Templar was still flashing lyrium-bright in her mind.

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against her own again, a sign of adoration and an acknowledgement that he couldn’t articulate. _Yes_ wasn’t enough for what she was asking so she went without, the simple gesture more than that. He meant more to her than those Circle boys had, he was so much _more_ than that life he had tried to leave behind, more than Kirkwall and Samson and the lyrium that still hummed deep in his bones.

She didn’t know how long had passed while they lied there, breathing and heartbeat syncing together, but it felt calmer, not as thick as it had before. They had pulled away a bit so her hands could wander over his skin, feeling all those scars, both old and new. Her hands were drawn to the one she had noticed the other night before she pressed herself along him. It was long and thick, cutting from his hip to right below his heart and up a bit past it. He shivered when she touched it and he was looking down at her when she glanced up at his face.

“When Kirkwall fell,” he said in answer to her silent question. “I fought alongside Hawke, between her and Meredith’s sword.”

She nodded at him for telling her, sliding down his body to press a kiss to where it started. His hands were on her all at once, so large as he held her and brushed those soothing circles over her skin. Each freckle buzzed under his touch, her body alive from the heat of his body. He was so _important_ to her it was almost ridiculous. He was all gentle touches and comforting hands that said so much more than she was capable of.

He pulled her up to kiss her, arms holding her as he arched around her, covering her slightly. It was hard and intense, possessive in a way. They were giving each other bits and pieces until they were too intertwined you couldn’t pull one apart without getting the other. She wasn’t as bad as she used to be, she was _better_ because of him and he held himself together as much as her arms did.

He pulled away to look at her, a hand brushing the hair out of her face. His knuckles brushed gently over the side of her cheek, her eyes closing as he pressed his lips to her scar again, the simple act so _loud_ in her head. He moved down her face until he was at her mouth again, this kiss more languid and when he broke away he leaned on her cheek.

“You asked me about it a while ago,” she said thickly, staring over him to the far side of the room.

She could feel the brush of his eyelashes as he opened his eyes, a light flutter against her skin. “Hm?” he asked sounding drowsy.

“The scar. I couldn’t answer then. I didn’t want to tell you, it was too… personal.” She took a deep breath and let it out.

His response was immediate and expected. “You don’t have to--”

She cut him off with a quick kiss, she needed to tell him and for as much as she loved him, he just needed to shut up. “I do. I _want_ to. Isn’t that good enough?”

He stayed silent, just a slight nod for her to continue all she got by way of an answer.

“It’s… not very long,” she confessed. “I had a lot of boys in the Circle, and one of my favorite things to do was sneak them around at night. I don’t even remember their names, I didn’t even bother to learn half of their surnames. They weren’t important to me, just something to do.

“I didn’t notice, but there was an older Templar there who had taken notice in me. Lyrium had already started on her mind and she thought I was practicing blood magic while everyone else slept. She came after me one night, called me an abomination, then sliced out at me, a litany on her lips to stop me from making her a thrall. She cut my face before I could throw up a wall of ice.”

He asked her if she was alright, what happened after that. His arms were tighter around her as if he meant to hold her together. She found she didn’t need it; it didn’t sting as badly when she said it than when she thought of it.

“I severed her arm by accident. It was caught between her and the ice at the shoulder. She was shipped off to Val Royeaux to live out the rest of her addled days while I was kept under close watch at the Circle. My family stopped visiting me and I’m sure they were the reason I wasn’t moved to another Circle, or why I wasn’t branded.” She heaved a heavy sigh, her fingers carding through his hair again. She didn’t feel sick, her feet didn’t itch to run and those burning swords of mercy weren’t flashing behind her eyes. “That felt surprisingly good.”

He cleared his throat quietly, nose brushing over her scar again. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t sooner,” she murmured, looking at him. His eyes were lidded but he looked awake. The set of his mouth betrayed something like anger at what had happened to her. He knew there were bad Templars, ones that shouldn’t have been there or had been there too long. Perhaps there was even the fear that he was one himself, a fate he stopped along with those Chantry chains. “I think I was afraid of what you would say, but I’m not now.”

Cullen didn’t answer, but he pressed his lips over her own quickly, a seal of something. He murmured a quick _I love you_ before closing his eyes and pulling her more tightly against him. They fell asleep like that, tangled up together. It was too warm but it was nice too, an acknowledgement that he was real and in her arms. More palpable than anything else was to her.

When they woke up, they dressed each other quietly, more wandering hands that lead to a frantic, half-dressed bump that left them both panting and smiling afterward, a fresh sheen of sweat on their foreheads. Dressing was slower after that with a heavy kiss at the end. She left for the gardens while he was left with his reports, the feel of their skin together still marked all over her.

Morrigan found her in the gardens and asked the Inquisitor to summon the War Council. She had a few things to discuss as to Corypheus’ next move and it would be prudent if they could get it moving. Clara agreed and grabbed a runner, penned three notes to her advisors, and sent him on his way. She clipped her plants like she came there to do and went to the War Room, Morrigan close behind.

Josephine was already there in the room, clipboard in hand. Leliana came in not soon after, Cullen coming in last with a fast apology. He gave Clara a small smile before going to the other side of the table, the meeting commencing.

Morrigan laid out her theories and what she _knew_ on the table. The advisors argued it around for a bit before the Inquisitor put it down and forced them to prepare for the assault on the Arbor Wilds. Given the magnitude of the endeavor, it wouldn’t be happening quickly. Each was set on preparing their allies for movement and the council was dismissed.

The attack was cleared to happen in three weeks’ time, Clara’s mood effectively shot through with the weight of yet another assault pressing down on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The usual, please give me some feedback on how it went, how it read, is everything flowing alright? I need some sort of direction while I write to make sure nothing gets out of hand.


	16. Tes mains tremblent quand tu me tiens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wasn’t breathing when he gently asked if he could kiss her. A laugh almost bubbled out of her at his need to ask when he’d nearly taken her apart earlier as they rolled around in the tent. It stopped, though, at the sincerity in his face and the adoration in those _gorgeous_ eyes. She _trusted_ him, he made her feel _safe_ , lyrium blue and honest.

Clara kissed her Commander fervently that night before the assault. It was urgent in the dark, the sounds of the camp at night mixing with the creatures that lived in the murky swamp of the Wilds. They didn’t speak of the impending march or of the Empress and her entourage a few tents adjacent. He held onto her tightly, swallowing the noises she sighed out from above him. He shook under her fingertips, eyes shining brightly in the hazy firelight that managed to filter into the tent. He was so _beautiful_ to her, it was hard for her to focus on much else, the way he drove into her, the way his hands impressed her, the way he stuttered out her name all blending together.

After they’d worked out their frustrations together, _he_ held _her,_ a strong hand on the back of her head pressing her into his neck. She could feel the gentle drag of his fingers over that old scar under her hair, heard him murmuring how beautiful she was as she held herself against him.

“Who are you bringing in with you?” he asked quietly, fingers still combing through her hair.

“Solas asked to come with me,” she replied into his throat, voice soft. “Cassandra and Cole are coming as well. Morrigan is also accompanying me, and she is clearly the most eager to be off.”

“Don’t take any risks,” he murmured. He brushed her hair out of her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead, eyes scrunching shut like they always did.

“You know better than to say that.” She brushed her lips over his throat, felt his chuckle rumble through her.

“I know. It still makes me feel better to say it at least.” He rolled them both so she was pinned halfway underneath him, their faces level.

It was hard to see him in the dim, filtered light but she could still make out the hard shapes. The bridge of his nose, a jutting cheekbone, the subtle glow of those _gorgeous_ eyes, the contours of his lips all stood out in bright relief. She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips, wishing she could say more. Discussing how she felt left her tongue in knots, tripping over her teeth as she tried to spit it out. She hoped he understood how much she loved him from that gentle press of lips, hoped he knew just how much had changed for him.

“Don’t get too close to the red Templars,” he whispered when she pulled back. He pushed her hair away again, his knuckles brushing her cheek.

She could feel his leg pressed between her own, his skin so warm in the damp air of the tent. “Nothing ever gets close to me,” she said with a small smile. She grabbed his face in her hands and rubbed her nose against his, a small hum coming out.

“Really?” he asked, wicked grin spreading out. He laid down more fully on her, pressed his weight into her body. He wasn’t too heavy, really, but he was still so _close_. One of his hands was cupping her head while the other was brushing up the side of her face.

“I _like_ it when you’re close to me,” she murmured, his face so close to her own. She closed her eyes, lips parting as his thumb brushed over them. Her arms held him tightly, hooked under his own and nails digging into his shoulders.

“I feel better when you’re here,” he admitted against her lips, breath ghosting over her.

“You make me feel safer,” she responded instantly. It was true: everything wasn’t as suffocating when she was with him. Everything was better, the ground felt more sure under her feet.

His eyes crinkled up as he smiled at her again. “I love you,” he said quietly, head dipping down the short distance to press a kiss to her cheek, right over that scar.

She breathed her own _I love you_ against his lips, the stubble on his chin rubbing at her. It was so familiar at this point she could barely remember how she had lasted when her fingers had itched to be on him. She could touch him whenever she wanted and now she knew he _always_ wanted to. There was no more fear of what she would see in those beautiful golden eyes, no more worry that she was going to do something wrong. Pressing up against him, skin-on-skin, felt _right_.

“I’ll see you before we march,” she promised when he broke away to rest his head on her shoulder.

“I wish I could go with you,” he said into her neck. “But I’m needed with the troops.” His arms moved to hold her more closely, the two of them wrapped up tightly together.

She gently combed through his hair again, cool fingertips rubbing his scalp. “I’ll be fine. I still keep your coin with me, you know.”

She could feel the force of his grin and how he tried to hide it. It was endearing, her heart swelling with affection for him. “You won’t need me to wish you good luck, then,” he managed, voice some shade of happy.

“I don’t think it could hurt.” Her lips pulled up into a smile, the action so easy now. A little more than a year ago she’d hardly remembered what her laugh sounded like and now she was all smiles and breathy sighs around Cullen.

“Well I can save it for tomorrow, then.” He rolled them both onto their sides again, faces level. It took a few moments to get comfortable again, their bedroll a tangle of limbs and sweaty skin. They settled on him holding her to his chest, close enough to feel their hearts beating. His came a split-second after her own, a steady _whump_ that rocked her body to the core.

His eyes watched her for a moment, searching her face for something. She could feel every freckle on her skin under his gaze, a heavy blush rising as she stared back at him. Flecks of gold stood out in the dim light. There was a small part of his left eye that had a brown spot, dark against the ripples of amber. The other was smooth rings of that beautiful Ferelden brown she loved so much. Her mother had always called brown eyes “common,” citing her father and sisters as examples. This close to him, near enough to see the way his pupils widened when he looked at her, she knew that was wrong; there was nothing common about the way his eyes reminded her of sunlight filtering through a window, of flickering candlelight in a warm little room, of the sun right before it finished setting, huge and orange.

She wasn’t breathing when he gently asked if he could kiss her. A laugh almost bubbled out of her at his need to ask when he’d nearly taken her apart earlier as they rolled around in the tent. It stopped, though, at the sincerity in his face and the adoration in those _gorgeous_ eyes. She _trusted_ him, he made her feel _safe_ , lyrium blue and honest.

Clara gave a small nod that _yes_ , _he was allowed_. The kiss was gentle, soft, not the open mouth and wet presses that were more teeth than anything that happened when they made love. It was clear from the way he held her, the way his lips moved against hers, that he didn’t always have to use his words to tell her he loved her. All of those instances where he asked her to get some sleep, to be safe, to remember to eat something were all shaking in her head. Her chest ached as she sighed into the kiss, realization and validation that he had always cared for her too warming in her limbs.

She fell asleep first, pressed up against him and safe. Even as she dropped off she could still feel his hands rubbing soothing circles into her back and his breath as he softly murmured words she couldn’t quite make out. Her dreams weren’t about the impending assault or the eluvian or Corypheus, it was just him. Those old dreams of his hands as he kissed her sweetly or of how lovely she found his eyes or how the both of them had been subjected to that awkward burning that consumed them both.

Waking was difficult, especially from those golden dreams of him. The bugle didn’t rouse her, but Cullen’s warm rough hands and raspy voice did. She felt him disentangling himself into the cool air that pervaded the tent. The places he detached from were too cold and sticky with sweat, the sudden loss waking her more than the noise outside the tent could.

Her fingers ran over his hips as he knelt next to her, hands searching for his own. He grabbed them and twined his with hers, grasp warm and familiar. The kiss he gave her was on the cheek but it lingered long after his lips left her. The feeling stayed as they dressed and persisted through the longer embrace they shared before leaving the tent to prepare.

She suited her armor up, all scarves and light breastplate while she collected her companions. After they were briefed and stocks were checked, she was left to begin the march. She spoke briefly with Cullen about the battle plan and right there he was the Commander of her forces. She gripped his hand lightly, a slight squeeze to say that she would be safe, she’d come back to him from this. His eyes softened, but his mouth still had that grim set it held whenever he had to lead.

A well of pride bubbled up inside of her when the assault truly began. _Her_ Commander was atop that busted statue, so in his element as he bellowed out commands. She only had a small moment to reflect on how he had shook under hands the night before and now he was directing the battle before she had to move out. The walk was long and dangerous, all tree roots that reached up and threatened to break ankles and hanging vines that seemed almost capable of reaching out and grabbing you.

She freed camps along the way, fast elves and sharp knives jutting out of the shadows stabbing at her and the soldiers as they crossed the marshy ground. It was all so quick, clips of shimmering gold armor and angry determination as they tried to stab through her barrier. Clara could feel their daggers as they glanced off the barrier, sudden points that bounced away as the wielders met their ends on the edge of her spirit blade. They were cut to ribbons easily, greasy blood and guts spilling out onto the wet ground but more _kept coming_. They were interspersed with the red Templars that gradually grew thicker the further in they moved. Inquisition soldiers, shrieking shadows, and ancient glittering elves that screamed words she couldn’t understand filled the murky water.

Everything was terribly _red_ , the air thick with the smell of blood and bad lyrium. Red Templars shattered and sank heavily into the water, the bodies inside of the crystals spilling out in disgusting red chunks. The way they Silenced her didn’t have her throat burning as it clamped shut and she tried to speak like it had always used to. It wasn’t so _bad_ , didn’t burn her like it had before. It was still thick on her skin like a sweater that was too tight but it didn’t stop her. She had a grim determination, a detachment from the bodies floating face down in the shallow water and the dying as they cried out for mercy. Cullen’s coin pressed heavily into her chest where it was held against her under all of the armor. It was grounding, something that kept her pressing on and up to the bridge into the Temple.

Anger at seeing the magister cracked through her, like she was an ice cube dropped into a cup of water, splitting fast. He put on a show for everyone gathered. The bodies of the Wardens he still had ensnared littered the ground as he tried to break through those ancient barriers. It was anticlimactic as he disintegrated, Morrigan giving the Inquisitor a shrug as they waited for _something_ to happen.

Then his archdemon came bounding up and over the side of the cliff and they were _all_ forced inside. The elves clad in their glittering mail ran just as fast as Clara and her companions did, slamming the door shut on the dragon and Corypheus as he ripped himself from the body of a dead warden. Disgust bubbled inside of her, threatened to make her vomit right there on the floor of the Temple but now _wasn’t_ the time to lose her breakfast.

Morrigan argued with her, argued with Solas, admitted that perhaps she might have been wrong, but she snapped back easily, asserting that she knew what the inscriptions on the blocks meant. So they did them, the blocks lighting and letting them pass just in time to see that man, _Samson_ , leering back at her before he jumped through the crevice in the ground.

They almost followed but the Inquisitor’s team tried to rip itself in two. Morrigan and Solas advised her to undergo the trials while Cassandra and Cole preferred the direct approach. Each cited good points, Cole’s just being a soft plea that they could give their soldiers more time to retreat. She _wanted_ to give in, just rush right for what they had come for but she couldn’t afford to be hasty. So she did each inane trial, Cassandra frowning darkly as they ran through each one.

It took far too long, but they got through eventually and managed to form a tentative alliance with the sentinels who guarded the Well. Solas said _something_ to that elf, Abelas, that had him placing some kind of trust in them. When Morrigan flew off they all lurched forward after her but Clara had never asked about that particular trick of hers and found it was too difficult to catch up to something with wings when all she had were her own tired legs.

They were lead through, ending skirmishes and refilling their supplies before they finally made it to the Well where Samson was standing with his monstrosities.

Oh, he was _terrible_. She had never properly seen the man but she could _smell_ him and she knew instantly who he was. He gloated about Templar glory and fulfilling what he was made to do but all she could see was a man who was rotten and glowing red to the core. He stank of lyrium and blood, both tainted and dead. Those eyes, _Maker,_ how disgusting he looked standing there gloating and speaking of _purpose_ , they were bloodshot and spoke of those years he spent on the street begging for his next lyrium fix.

He wasn’t easy to bring down but it didn’t _matter_. She got stabbed through six different ways in her haste to end him, half of it anger at how much Cullen cared and the rest blind rage at him for fucking everything he’d had away. Her magic did practically nothing and she ended up resorting to smashing her sword against him any way she knew, foregoing all of the training had gone through.

After he was finally lying on the ground, broken and coughing, she spat on him, the knowledge that she very well would have died without the rune Dagna had made embedded in her spirit hilt heavy in the back of her skull. Then Morrigan deigned to appear and made Clara turn from the shell on the ground and make her way up the stairs after Abelas.

They all fought but the ancient elf eventually conceded to the Inquisitor. His time had passed and his name, _‘Sorrow,’_ wasn’t so much a punch in the gut as it was a ball that had been suddenly tossed to the Inquisitor, something extra to carry, another life to know she had destroyed. He left and Morrigan didn’t need to convince Clara very hard that she should be the one to drink. There was doubt about what Morrigan would do with what was in that Well, but the want to be a slave to _anything_ after those years of service and fear in the Circle gave Clara the idea that the water would leave more than just a bad taste in her mouth.

So Morrigan drank and stumbled free, managed to babble out a few sentences before Corypheus _finally_ arrived and forced them to run again. As they passed through the eluvian and tripped into Skyhold, Clara couldn’t help reflecting on how _tired_ she was of running from him. This _needed_ to end, he wasn’t worth the energy of running from.

Everything was confusing after they arrived back so suddenly. The entire compound was nearly empty, most of the soldiers having left on the march. Only a few had remained behind to protect the pilgrims and nobles and refugees, and they weren’t much help when the Inquisitor rampaged through to the rookery. She _had_ to get a letter out, had to tell the rest of the Inquisition where she was. Leliana had to be told, Josephine had to be told, the Empress, _Cullen--_

In the end, Cassandra calmed her down and suggested sending a bird to one of the lords in the Deauvin Flats and asking him to send a rider to explain what had happened to the forces in the Wilds. It made sense, but Clara was still frazzled and the wounds she’d gotten during the fight were pressing on her more now that she was out of danger. Feverishly, she agreed and ceded to Cassandra to write the letter, her blood beginning to burn.

The Inquisitor took to the bed for two days, recuperating and then she was up with a vengeance. She was advised to stay down but she had _work_ to do. A voice in the back of her mind kept scratching at her, made her feet itch with the anxiety that uncertainty carried. It was a hell being away from those she cared about under those circumstances and her gut burned with how much she missed Cullen, how sick she felt with worry that they hadn’t heard anything and that he probably didn’t know where she was.

She passed the time researching and grilling Morrigan about what she knew, Solas a constant frowning figure in the background. Her words were cutting as she pressed her for _more_ , anything she could give her than would make her sharper, give her that different edge that Corypheus had wanted. Elves, gods, Mythal and her _death_ , Corypheus sought godhood, perhaps he was looking to find out what could have killed a god and take it for his own? In the end he was still in the wrong age like Abelas had been, too old and too stubborn to adapt. The difference was the elf was _sorrow_ for what had been lost and for what his purpose had been while Corypheus was blind rage and stupidity, the need to scream at something loudly enough until it was what he wanted. One was resignation and the other was recalcitrant.

Exactly ten days after they stumbled through the mirror, Cullen arrived with Leliana and a small retinue of soldiers. Word was sent to the Inquisitor as she was in her room at her desk reading through more marriage proposals and apology letters when she should have been asleep. She snapped angrily at the page that came to retrieve her, tired and in an old mood to fight. Her wounds had closed but they still burned with the salve the healers had put on her and they had only exacerbated her mood, the anger old and familiar in the haze of anxious uncertainty that clouded her head in the absence of familiarity.

Then the page had told her that the Commander had been spotted approaching and she ran past him and out into the courtyard, descending the staircase as the gates were opening. The grass was already wet with dew and it soaked through her thin slippers, the robe and shift she had been in doing nothing to block the wind but it didn’t _matter_. Her feet itched and she felt like throwing up, her old wounds pulsing with her heartbeat as she watched him ride up on his destrier.

It was clear he had been looking for her by the way his head turned, scanning for the familiarity of her red hair or her thrum of magic. When he saw her he nearly vaulted off his horse, tripping on tired feet in the dust of the courtyard. Heart hammering in her chest, she ran up to him and threw her arms out, his already open and waiting. He wrapped her up in the embrace, a sigh of relief shuddering out as he lifted and spun her in a small half-circle.

She was set down fast, still holding him, when he pressed a kiss to her lips in the dark yard, mouth urgent as the need for reassuring closeness overtook them both. _Maker_ , she had missed him so much. Her eyes closed and her hands held his face while he crushed her to him. He was still covered in all of his plates, the hard metal pressing uncomfortably into her. It didn’t matter that the wind was screaming in her ears or that half of the people left in the compound could see as they crushed themselves together.

He broke away and put her down and she could _see_ the heavy circles under his eyes and the thick beard covering his face despite the darkness. Her heart thudded in her chest at seeing him like that, lyrium thrum and armor polish and sweat little comfort then. Questions burned at the tip of her tongue but she held them, waited for the horses to be put away before she tugged him away from the crowd that had gathered. Cassandra was left to speak with Leliana about what had happened while Clara instructed a page to bring food to her quarters.

Clara brought him up the grand staircase to her room, his feet sluggish and tired, but he still followed, his huge hand clutched tightly in her own. He didn’t talk much as she walked him, eyes tired and footsteps heavy. Her own anxiety was starting to wind down, make her limbs heavy like wood but she still pulled him until they were in her room. She helped him take off the layers of armor and propped them unceremoniously on the chest at the edge of her bed.

The page returned when she was halfway through and handed her a basket, stuttering out a short greeting as she took the basket and quietly thanked him before shutting the door. It sat on her desk while they both worked at the buckles and ties until he was sitting on the edge of her bed in nothing but his trousers, chest bare and boots discarded off to the side. He didn’t say much, just peeled off her robe and shift until she was in her smalls and held her to him, their chests pressed together.

She could feel the hair on chest rubbing against her breasts, the contact familiar and missed. His hand tugged her hair out of the loose bun it had been in and twined itself in it, pressing her face into his shoulder. She was sitting in his lap, hips slotted together with her legs on either side of him as she straddled him, them both sitting on the edge of the bed. His skin was warm against her own and she could feel him sigh like he was deflating, a heavy weight falling off of his shoulders.

“Did you get the message we sent?” Clara murmured, her hand gently rubbing his scalp.

He shook his head against her, beard scratching her bare shoulder. “We left as soon as it was confirmed that your party disappeared from the Temple.”

“So you just left?” she asked. She could feel the muscles in his chest tighten as he held her harder, fingers almost bruising on her skin.

“Leliana said she was returning,” he said slowly, measuring each word. “She guessed you would have ended up here after seeing the eluvian in the Temple. I asked to accompany her on the way back.” His lips brushed over where her shoulder met her neck, her pulse bouncing heavily against him.

She pressed her lips to his temple, a reassuring touch to remind him that she was here _now_. “I was worried what you would do when we didn’t come back.”

“I tried not to think about it. It was hard though, especially when we rode.” He brought his head up to look at her, their foreheads pressing together. “What happened in the Temple?”

“Are you sure you want me to tell you now?” she asked, voice thin.

“I _have to_ know what happened,” he said breathlessly. His hands moved up and over the marks the red Templars had left on her, a question in the touches.

She told him slowly then because she found it nearly impossible to say no to him. As tired as he was, he listened, face darkening as she spoke of Samson and what her blind rage had allowed to happen to her. His hands on her rubbed lightly over the new-forming scars of the stabs and burns that those shadows sliced into her. Those beautiful eyes were _angry_ when she spoke of how the former Templar had laid there on the ground after she had smashed part of his armor into glittering pieces.

He took it when she told him what Morrigan had done, his thumbs brushing those soothing circles onto her skin. There were circles under his eyes and he sounded exhausted and his hands had the slightest tremor to them and she couldn’t tell if it was because of her or from _something else_ , but he still expressed the dearest relief when he said he was glad she didn’t drink from the Well. He still held an aversion to magic, but not to _her,_  she knew, and that primal fear of what he didn’t understand was strong. He understood magic and he understood her but he didn’t understand what that witch had done, he couldn’t completely wrap his head around it like Solas or Clara could. So he was still thankful, relieved that she hadn’t done something or gone somewhere that he couldn’t follow.

They ended up lying on the bed together over the blanket and staring up at the ceiling. Fingers intertwined, he rubbed his thumb over the skin on her hand out of habit as they lied alongside each other in the moonlight. When she looked to the side, Clara could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, warm and solid beside her. The arm he had under her head was relaxed, his other draped over his chest to reach her hand. It was comforting being skin-on-skin with him without the intensity of arousal. She didn’t feel the incessant need to press her lips to any part of his skin she could reach, she was content to just lie beside him and soak up the moonlit silence.

“Clara?” Cullen murmured into the dark.

She had been close to dropping off, dreams of his sharp kisses and soft hands already starting to reach around the edges of her vision. “Hmm?” she mumbled quietly, shifting to look at him.

Even blurry as her vision was with fatigue, he still looked beautiful in the shallow light. She could feel his eyes, those _gorgeous_ Ferelden brown eyes, looking at her. His hair had devolved into tight curls and he looked so _tired_ but his mouth still held that same set whenever he looked at her, that intense happiness he felt around her written in the relaxed worry-lines of his forehead and the smooth line of his nose.

“Do you ever think of what you’re afraid of?” There was something else between his words. It said that he didn’t want to tell her what he was thinking of without getting how she felt first.

“Aside from spiders?” she asked tiredly, turning onto her side. She rested the palm of her free hand on his chest over his heart. The steady beat was comforting under her fingertips.

He chuckled, lovely smile breaking through the beard on his face. “Aside from spiders.”

She answered him easily, trusting him with this piece of herself. “Tranquility,” she said slowly, eyes focusing on a scar that went down the side of his neck and over his collarbone. “Failure. Being who I used to be. I’m afraid of you getting hurt.” The admission hung in the air like a fog, thick and heavy. She wasn’t afraid to meet his eyes, but she still found herself incapable of it. They’d look too different in the pale moonlight.

“Don’t be afraid for me,” he said immediately, arm under her head coming up and brushing her hair over her shoulder.

“I told you to let me worry about you,” she answered, finally looking up at him. She lightly scratched her nails over his chest, hairs and scars running under her nails. She leaned down and kissed him then, failing to think of anything else she wanted to do more in the moment. It was languid, all slow lips and gentle teeth and Clara couldn’t stop the way _I love you_ scrolled through her head. Her nose brushed against his gently as she broke away, delighted by the way his head followed her as he chased the loss of her lips.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked, eyes sliding closed she as she pressed her face against his shoulder.

“Relapse,” he said quietly.

“You won’t,” she said staunchly, her hand squeezing his as she kissed his shoulder.

He squeezed her hand back and his arm tightened under her, holding her against him. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Cullen.”

“I know,” he murmured, shifting so he was lying on his side and facing her. “I’m still allowed to be afraid.” He managed to release one of her hands in favor of the other and bring it to his face, lips brushing over her knuckles.

“If anything did happen to me I’m sure Cassandra would find a way to fix it,” she said, eyes feeling heavy again. He was warm next to her, lyrium burn lulling her into a stupor.

He chuckled again, lovely smile gracing his features. “I don’t doubt it but I still wouldn’t want to rely on that.”

“You don’t have to,” she said with a yawn. “I promise I’ll always come back.”

He pulled her tightly against him then and she knew that was the answer he had been silently praying for. Unsurety chased her proclamation but she kept it to herself, instead electing to give him this comfort that both knew couldn’t be kept on a deeper level. She fell asleep in his embrace, all tangle of limbs and burnt-out emotion. Sleep was heavy that night, thick dreams of _him_ rolling around in her head. She woke up first then, when the sun was a bloated orb still hanging low in the early morning.

An ache had been building in her gut from those fevered kisses and eager presses in her dreams and it only grew worse as she looked at him in the filtering morning light. He was snoring lightly, lips parted as he slept. His face was relaxed, the circles under his eyes lightened from a night of sleep without nightmares. One of his hands was hooked in the hip of his pants while the other was spread out where she had been lying.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, hand coming up to smooth the hair on his forehead away. It was rare for her to wake up before him, she usually slept so heavily when he was next to her. Perhaps he had been more exhausted than she thought. He was trained to hide it and old habits died hard it would seem.

He stirred under her soft kisses, waking slowly. His lips curled up in a small smile and his arms came up to hold her against him. Waking up was quick after that, his strong arms flipping them so she was pressed beneath him. Her legs were around his hips in an instant, rolling against him as he kissed one of those razor-sharp trails down her neck. Each noise she made at one of his bites had his hips rolling faster with hers, the clothes between them frustrating in a wonderful way.

His fingers dipped beneath the band of her smalls, quickly pressing into her. She arched around him, whines spilling out of her as she rolled her hips. He moaned into her breasts as he leaned his head there, composing himself and she could feel his arousal pressing into her hard through his pants. Need coiled tightly in her gut, ready snap so suddenly that she cried out when his free hand went to her breast, his other working her faster towards an end.

She came easily, responsive to how experienced he had become at working her over. All those nights they had spent in fervent urgency paid off for her and soon he was pressing into her, rocking them both into the mattress as he groaned her name interspersed with the Maker’s. She could barely see straight, she was so focused on the feeling of him all around her. The way his hands held her in a bruising grip cut right through her, made her shake. Her nails dug into his back and she tried to muffle her screams in his shoulder, her teeth biting him hard enough that she knew there would be a mark later.

He finished before her, but she was soon after him as he kissed a trail down her body, his lips intent on leaving a mark as his fingers pushed her those last few inches. She felt boneless afterward and was loathe to let him go even after he said he had work that needed to be attended to. _What could be more important than his Inquisitor?_ she had asked as he kissed her one last time as they were both half-dressed and standing by her desk.

He didn’t have much of an answer past citing the mountain of paperwork that was no doubt breeding more letters on his desk and she had to agree. She had seen a few pages bringing letters into his office during one of her times spacing out in the courtyard with too little to do as she waited for _someone_ to return. So he left her with the promise to see her later.

Clara wandered the grounds, loose and in a better mood than she had been for weeks. She made an effort to be kinder to the page that summoned her to the garden, thanking the young girl and getting a bright smile in return. It was sweet but Morrigan’s frantic panic scraped her out of whatever good mood she had been in. She pulled her into the eluvian _again_ and Clara was getting exceedingly exhausted of the strange in-between places this dragged her to. It felt like the Fade but it _wasn’t,_ the air wrong and tight across her skin.

They waded through and found Keiran eventually, along with Morrigan’s mother. It was like a wonderful family reunion, everyone coming together and standing on edge. Clara stayed out of it, unwilling to press herself into the situation and experiencing acute relief that she hadn’t drank from the Well when Morrigan was forced doubled-over in the fake dust of that limbo.

Flemeth let them go, Keiran as well, and they stumbled out of the eluvian and into the courtyard. Clara set upon Morrigan immediately, grilling her all over again about what she knew, why did that happen, _what was going on_. The witch was as cryptic and evasive as she typically was, though she did agree to putting what she knew to use with Leliana. The two were some kind of old friends and Clara prayed they could sort through some of this, her entire life was beginning to feel even more like a ball of yarn that was being tugged free at all sorts of odd angles.

The rest of the Inquisition arrived in the week after Morrigan dragged Clara through the eluvian yet again. It was slow going, sorting through all of new arrivals and old soldiers. The rest of her companions arrived too, as well as Josephine. Vivienne gave Clara a ring that was meant for the closest friends of the First Enchanters and her throat hurt as she accepted the token. It was sweet and didn’t feel heavy on her finger as she wore it around, a reminder that was worthy of all of this.

A few nobles came along with the soldiers and refugees and were housed, the entire compound fit to bursting and something that kept Clara far too busy. She missed the nights in Cullen’s warm office where she could run her fingertips over each of his scars and he would try to count her freckles. She missed talking to him about what he was like when he was a boy and she missed telling him another piece of herself that she didn’t need to hold so close anymore.

Meetings with her advisers left her chafed as they pressured her into finishing this once and for all, everyone arguing about Corypheus’ next move, or even _if_ he had a next move planned. He nearly had nothing left, his forces had been smashed against the floor of the Temple of Mythal. Morrigan was of the greatest help, though she was still shaken after her son had nearly disappeared. She suggested practice hunting dragons and though it wasn’t exactly ideal idle work, it was something that would take the Inquisitor away from the hive of nobles and refugees that Skyhold had become.

She grew more despondent as she was forced into meetings with nobles for congratulations too, and she began finalizing her trip to the Emprise du Lion to put down the dragons that had taken residence in the highlands. A meeting with the Empress the day before she was to leave had her nerves grating raw as she was brought near to her wit’s end. The disdain for Celene was still strong inside of the Inquisitor and it was nearly palpable as they conversed. She didn’t stay long in that meeting, adjourning it early with a stiff apology and a brisk walk from the room as she escaped into the great hall.

It was late at night and she had hoped to get alone time with Cullen before she had to set out but Varric grabbed her and had very different plans in mind. He managed to talk her into a game of wicked grace, and had anyone else asked, she probably would have turned them down outright or even laughed before saying something scathing. But this was _Varric,_ she wasn’t a wretch so she agreed.

It was _fun_. Actually, it was _very_ fun. It was hard recalling a time when she had felt looser around so many people. The air was warm and her toes were buzzing from the rounds Varric kept ordering and Cullen staring at her from across the table had her blushing constantly. It was _good_ and she was even comfortable enough to tell that story about her Harrowing that had had her blushing for three years after. Everyone laughed when she told the part about the rabbit, who could have known that there was a warren beneath the Harrowing chamber?

“Rabbits are my favorite animals to this day,” she even added as she cut the deck for another hand. Everyone was smiling at her and the laughter was comfortable, not too loud for a change. She didn’t feel the need to go running from the room to hide away, these were her _friends_. She was blushing even more heavily when they insisted she was funny. Humor had been a shield she’d developed in the Circle, a product of a quick tongue and an even quicker mind. It was a defense but now it didn’t _have_ to be and it was wonderful.

Varric speaking with her at the end was sweet, though not as sweet as witnessing Cullen’s walk of shame back to his office. She followed him not too long after he had gone running from the room, leaving Bull and Sera passed out on top of and underneath the table. Krem would scrape them up in the morning in time for them to see her off to the Emprise.

She teased Cullen about his loss for a bit, enjoying watching him burn under the thin shirt and trousers he had thrown on in lieu of his armor. He’d have to retrieve them from Josephine in the morning but for now he was _Clara’s_.

He took her on the bed in his loft, the both of them laughing as they bumped noses and grinded together. She had managed to carve something so different from those boys in the Circle. He was her dearest friend, someone she felt safe around and he didn’t care about who she had been before. They were comfortable around each other enough to not be afraid of fumbling or clacking teeth and it was still _wonderful_ , that need and heat mixed with the love of the closeness of their bodies.

She finished much too quickly for her liking, too pliant in his hands. She loved the way he touched her too much but she wouldn’t trade the way he made her felt for anything else. He was sweet and sincere, beautiful eyes and mouth as he pushed her over the edge. They lied there together afterward, breathing hard in the thick air. It seemed to burn the card game off of them, left them tired and complacent as they soaked up the easy silence together.

Eventually she got up and tugged her smalls up and put his thick red shirt on. It felt good on her skin, safe and warm. She tossed him his pants and he managed to pull them on in time for her to come back to the bed. She laid down with him, on her side as she curled into him. He grabbed her hands immediately, his fascination with them seeming never-ending.

“I’m going to the Emprise tomorrow,” she murmured as she lied next to him on his bed. The stars weren’t out tonight, the sky a long, flat sheet of gray clouds.

“I read your report to the quartermaster,” he said as he played with her fingers. He tugged at one, turning her hand around to run his thumb across her Mark.

“It sounds like you’re keeping tabs on me.” She leaned forward and grabbed his hands, playing with his fingers as he had done to hers.

“I just like to be informed when the Inquisitor is going out to slay _dragons_.”

“Morrigan said I should get practice,” she replied with a shrug. A quick kiss was pressed to his knuckles before she sighed and looked up at him with his sad golden eyes and drawn eyebrows. “I should get to sleep.”

She started to get up, shivering as she moved away from his lyrium comfort but he reached out and pulled her down into the mattress. He hovered over her, her back pressed into the bed and the mattress bowing from the weight of his hands as he braced himself. He looked at her for a second, eyes studying her before they closed and he leaned down. The kiss he gave her was heavy, his hips coming down to seal her into the mattress. It was long, hard, all of those fears he held for her pushed into one point as he handed them over. She held herself to him, arms and legs tight as she tried to convey that this was _almost over_. He wouldn’t have to be so afraid for her for much longer.

When he broke away he rolled onto his side of the bed and pulled her back flush against his chest. Listening to him softly ask to be safe tomorrow from behind her crushed her heart into dust, it actually _hurt_ her chest to hear that much concern coming from him. His lips brushed over the back of her neck and he held her all night, neither sleeping particularly well. It was hard, with her impending departure and her admission that she couldn’t promise she’d be safe but she _would_ come back to him. She wasn’t going to leave, there had been too many times before where death had held onto her but she had always managed to shake free. It would take more than a Kaltenzhan to kill her.

The War Council the next morning was summoned fast, something she needed to get out of the way before she could leave. It was hard to peel herself out of Cullen’s searing embrace but she managed, duty and anger at Samson getting away clawing at her gut. He gave her one of his shirts to take with her and she had to choke down the unwanted tears that threatened to come out at the simple gesture. A piece of him for the trip so nights didn’t seem so lonely. She was appropriately touched, nothing sarcastic or scathing coming to her mind. She just hugged him before she left to get ready and then summoned the meeting.

Leliana was set to securing routes in and out of the Emerald Graves, Josephine was given to nobles to placate them, and Cullen was sent on a manhunt, the closing words of the meeting ringing solid and loudly even after she had said them.

_“Find me Samson.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, I can't look at this doc anymore tonight, my eyes hurt. It's almost over and I'm kind of sad about that, actually. Also, my midterms are this week so I don't know if I'll be able to post next Sunday. Hopefully I will and I should be able to, but there's always the chance I won't. On a different note, with this chapter this is actually the longest mainpairing Cullen/Female Trevelyan-centric fic on the site. So, that's something.
> 
> Anyway, tell me how this went, how you felt, how you _didn't_ feel, anything to work with!


	17. Ton amour me donne envie d'être meilleur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She read it over a second time then a third before she put it down and covered her face completely. Her hands were shaking and she couldn’t tell if she felt like crying or laughing, he was too _sweet_. It wasn’t that he didn’t see the bad in her, he just saw _through_ it. He saw less than she did and it didn’t matter because he still _wanted_ her, freckles and temper and all.

The Emprise du Lion was cold but the nights were made a bit more bearable with Cullen’s shirt wrapped around her. It held that familiar smell of lyrium and armor polish and an undertone of blank soap. It wasn’t him, wasn’t that warm body next to her, but it was the next best thing. She found she slept easier on the cold ground with that thick red shirt covering her from her hands to mid-thigh. _Safe and solid_ , just like he was.

Cassandra, Solas, and Cole were with her in the Emprise. Clara had rooted her feet to the spot in opposition to bringing Cole along, old memories of his screams of pain and confusion around the glittering red lyrium still rang in her head. They rolled around like marbles, clacking together even as Solas somehow managed to convince her that this would be a better way to see if it could still affect him as it had before. He was more _human_ now, less the spirit that was drawn like a magnet to lyrium’s siren song.

Though, to be honest, the lyrium they burned in the quarries of Sahrnia wasn’t so much a song as it was a discordant scream. It rang all wrong as the smoke twisted out of the decrepit quarries, having been abandoned when the Inquisition secured the area months earlier. Clara still couldn’t quite hear what Cole and Cullen and Cassandra could, but it scratched right at the edge of her hearing. It was sad and broken, like an instrument that had broken and been put back together wrong. Like a harp was playing a few rooms away but so many of the cords had snapped it was impossible to play a tune.

After they had finished with burning the remaining lyrium in one of the quarries, the air seemed to clear. It felt lighter afterward, Clara’s bones didn’t ache as they camped out and her magic was easier to grab. It didn’t slip away or brush over her fingers when she tried to reach for it. Instead it came through so much more easily, the weight of the air no longer thick and heavy like gloves that were too small.

The dragons past Judicael’s Crossing were another matter entirely. Their original goal, there was something that made everyone present apprehensive about launching themselves at three large and most likely angry dragons. Reports from scouts came back that they were breeding grounds and infested with red Templars in addition to the standard giants and the three dragons that had already settled there.

The report listed the Hivernal as the closest one to the party and perhaps the one most likely to put up the least fight. High cold resistance, low fire resistance, large, mostly teeth and extremely protective of her egg clutches, she was still less of a threat than the others who flew around the hot springs and sulfur pools.

They set out early in the morning, potions and grenades fastened safely to their belts. The requisition officer handed Clara a new staff, this one fire based. It was heavy and too hot in her hands and it took a few too many tries for her liking to get the end to ignite, but she managed. The dawnstone dragon at the end seemed to be mocking her as she let out a sound of frustration and threw it down into the snow before it finally sparked.

Resigned to being mostly useless for this fight, they encountered a horde of red Templars before actually finding the dragon. After they were finished, they stalked the dragon and Clara stayed mostly in the background by Solas where she wouldn't get in the way with her weak spells. Cole managed to get it on the ground in record time, fast knives in the cold air as he danced around its legs. It didn’t go down easily, but it still _went_ , Solas rained fire on in while it was down at the same time as Clara ripped open the Fade around it. Arm pulsing in time with the rift and her heart, the dragon finally lifted itself and fell for the last time, a few leftover drips of freezing water pooling around its mouth.

They marked its corpse and set fire to its egg clutches before moving back to the keep to nurse their wounds. The battle had somehow been both harder but just what she had expected. Frost burns were spattered on her skin and she was sure her toes were frozen solid but Cassandra was much worse. She hadn’t waivered or fallen once during the battle but icicles still clung to her, even when they were defrosting in their rooms at the keep.

Cassandra let Clara help her melt the icicles off, her control over fire not powerful enough to actually harm the Seeker, but enough to stave off frostbite. They stayed together most of that night, talking and going over strategy for the next dragon on their list, the Kaltenzahn. When Cassandra began to assert that the Inquisitor should rest, Clara considered retiring to her own room and perhaps reading the monstrosity Dorian had given her, but she wasn’t in the mood to see how many different metaphors she could read for sex. She was too wrecked, and with her luck, she’d probably just end up missing Cullen even more.

She ended up offering it to Cassandra who hesitated for a moment before taking it and stating that she could perhaps read it and offer the Inquisitor a summary of what had happened. Clara thanked her for taking pity and then left for her room, a slight stack of letters waiting for her at the small table by her bed.

Sitting down with her feet curled under her, she pulled the stack apart. There were reports, a small note that had come in by bird that said she had yet another Trevelyan matter to attend to. A small pang of guilt hit her for never responding to the letters her family sent her in the Circle but she shelved it away; she didn’t want to even begin to think of what she would say to her brother or parents after six years of silence.

There was a letter from Cullen under all of the paperwork and reports. She saved it until last, face hot as she ran her fingers over the rough texture of the envelope. Her armor was lying in a pile in the corner, freshly cleaned and glinting at her in the dim candlelight. Cullen’s shirt scratched over her skin and she bit her lip, turning the letter over and tearing it open gently.

It was sweet, just like everything about him was. He asked how she was doing, if she had been hurt, how she felt around the red lyrium. The concern in his words was apparent just in the way he wrote them, words close together as he tried to write as much as possible while he was still thinking them. He wanted her to know how strong he thought she was and how _bad_ at saying these kinds of things aloud he was. She was the first thing he thought of when he woke up and the last thing to leave when he fell asleep. His pillows still smelled like her and he missed waking up with her face pressed into his shoulder. He missed the way she laughed and how she smiled at him and how her hands felt when she held his face.

Clara covered part of her face as she read, embarrassment and affection for him making her skin burn. It was so hard for her to know this was that same man who had driven his sword through countless others, who had rallied those troops in the Arbour Wilds, who was so frank and honest in the way he approached everything. The things he said to her were sweet, he couldn’t wait for her to get back, he ached to have her arms around him again. He was aging ten years just knowing she was going up against what were considered the most dangerous dragon breeds in Thedas. His office felt too large without her there to fill it. He _missed_ her.

She read it over a second time, then a third before she put it down and covered her face completely. Her hands were shaking and she couldn’t tell if she felt like crying or laughing, he was too _sweet_. It wasn’t that he didn’t see the bad in her, he just saw _through_ it. He saw less than she did and it didn’t matter because he still _wanted_ her, freckles and temper and all.

The letter she sent back wasn’t as long as the one he sent her. Words had never came easily to her and even though she had so much to say to him, writing it in a letter just didn’t do it justice. He was worth more to her than his lovely eyes or his burning sincerity, _more_ than she could put down on parchment. The letter ended up being how she was doing, no the lyrium didn’t burn her so much anymore, the nights were made easier with his shirt wrapped around her. She only signed her name and then sealed it, leaving it on her desk for the page to collect in the morning and then lied down.

The room was warm and dim, even after she put out the candles on her nightstand. The moon and reflected light from the snow filtered in through the arrow slits in the keep’s wall, throwing bright stripes of light in the otherwise dark space. Clara feet itched to go outside and lie in the snow, but she stayed where she was. The entire place was a deathtrap and she had narrowly avoided frostbite earlier, she wasn’t too keen on a repeat of that. Still though, she hadn’t played in the snow since she was 11 and that been 15 years ago. It was a childish thing to want but she still _did_. On a list of all the things she craved, normalcy was perhaps at the top.

Sleep that night took her slowly. She slipped into dreams that were a strange combination of memories and wants for the future. They were her building a snowman in a frozen courtyard, Cullen walking over in a thick winter coat, no armor and face flushed and covered in light stubble as he smiled at her. A child with a hazy face but a mass of blonde curls and wide Ferelden brown eyes clutching to her father’s arm. The smell of woodsmoke and lyrium and ice heavy in the air around her as a few flakes still fell lazily from a gray sky. There was the sound of snow crunching delicately underfoot and the subdued sound of that little girl’s laughter, her _daughter_ , she somehow registered in this dream. She couldn’t make out what either of them said but she knew what it was, felt the happiness that sat heavily in her cold limbs. It was a _good_ dream, so much different from the reaching green demons and the flushed dreams she had of Cullen.

The next day they burned more quarries and rooted out the red Templars even further before going over the next dragon that had moved in, the Kaltenzhan. Large, even angrier than the other had been, this one already had children that were hatched and could swallow a grown man whole. This one also spat those same puddles of ice and freezing water and Clara could feel resentment building even further. It made her sloppy when they fought it the next day after baiting it for hours.

The roar it let out when it touched down knocked her over the lip of the spiral they were fighting it on. Already off to such a fantastic start, she brushed away her screaming ribs and launched herself at the dragon, staff mostly useless in her blind rage at the dragon for simply having the _audacity_ to nest in the area. Most of her hits glanced off the scales or froze directly to it. Had her sword been made out of lesser metals and no magic, it surely would’ve broken in the brittle cold that surrounded the dragon.

It roared again, knocking everyone down save Cassandra. The Inquisitor rose and was immediately swept away, a thick talon digging deeply into her leg as she was launched into the dragonlings that had wormed their way up, screaming out for their mother. They were killed easily, her spirit blade knocking them into pieces that oozed freezing blood.

In the end, when the dragon took off trailing its freezing blood and then came careening back into them, it died. It froze both Clara and Cole where they stood for almost an entire minute before expiring. It was a sudden and painful freeze, the dragon spitting liquid that froze and stuck to her on contact. The places it touched bare skin burned hotter than fire ever could, made her skin pull tightly and harden until she couldn’t move.

Cassandra finished off the dragon, driving that finishing strike through its eye while Solas defrosted Clara and Cole. She collapsed when the ice left enough to give her movement, inclined to just lie on the ground until feeling returned to the rest of her body. Cassandra ended up lifting her and setting her upright, intent on the Inquisitor walking back to camp under her own power. They set fire to the remaining eggs and left, the entire walk painful and raw.

Two healers were sent to her and Cole each that night. It burned Clara terribly when they tried to warm her, one of them a mage who ran hands that were too hot over her frozen skin. That freezing liquid was still in the stiffness of her clothes and had been taken to get cleaned and she was _left_ there in her room naked with the two of them. One, the mage, grabbed her feet and tried to gradually introduce heat back in but was met with a swift kick to the face. In her rage, Clara didn’t _care_ as much as she wanted to and lashed out whip-hard against the two of them until they asked Seeker Pentaghast if she could come in and please restrain the Inquisitor so they could stop her limbs from freezing off.

The entire ordeal was two types of embarrassing and five kinds of shameful. The two healers eventually left her alone when she was shaking with residual shivers, a thick blanket on her shoulders and a bandage and poultice wrapped around where the dragon had gored her. Her face burned in that strange mixture of shame and regret and she _wanted_ to apologize for the black eye she gave the girl, felt _regret_ with every fiber in her but she just couldn’t suck her own pride in long enough for that simple _I’m sorry_.

“Is there a reason you assaulted your healer?” Cassandra asked when the door was shut. Her voice was loud and thick in the room, the arrow slits throwing hard beams over her face.

Clara shrugged, acutely aware of her nakedness under the blanket. She pulled it more tightly around her despite knowing Cassandra had seen her bare perhaps fifteen minutes prior. “No.”

“You’re being intentionally difficult.”

“I know.”

She frowned at her, arms crossed over her dented breastplate. How the woman could manage to wear armor at all times baffled the Herald. “Is this about the fight? Is _that_ what you’re upset over?”

Clara shrugged again and Cass sighed. She sat down next to her on the bed, light burning sharply on her hard face as she folded her hands in her lap. She was waiting, Clara could tell, saw it in the set of her shoulders and the pointed look of her eyes. She wasn’t sure, however, if it was an apology or an explanation she wanted. Perhaps it was both.

“I don’t like feeling useless,” Clara admitted eventually. The silence had become too much to bear, the stillness outside and the white mountains only making it seem unbearably _loud_ in her head.

“You’re not useless,” Cass answered frankly. “I do not know why you seem to think that.”

“I don’t _think_ I am, I only said I was feeling that way,” she snapped, still irate as a child. She wiggled her toes against the blanket on the bed and sighed, trying to will the pointless anger away.

“This is about the dragons?”

“I suppose.”

Clara could hear the frown in her voice. “If you do not want to talk, you can tell me to leave.”

Her head snapped around and there must have been something about her expression that had Cassandra’s face softening. “No, don’t go! I don’t feel like being alone right now.” She pulled her legs tighter against herself under the blanket and rested her chin on her knees, another sigh ripping free.

“Is something _wrong_ , Clara?” she asked. There was something about how she said her name that had Clara regretting kicking the mage earlier all over again. Cassandra shamed her _so_ easily, it made her feel just like a little child getting scolded by her governess.

“No, it’s alright,” she said slowly, a hand going down to tug at her toes. “I just sort of lost it when we fought the dragon today.”

“You were reckless,” she agreed.

Clara shrugged. “I know.”

“The last dragon we have to take care of breathes fire, if that makes you feel better,” she offered, a smile dancing around the edge of her voice.

Clara felt a small grin tugging at her mouth. “Finally something I can handle.”

A hand was on her shoulder then, warm and heavy and strong. “We will be finishing burning the mines tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, and that should be the last of them,” she said with a nod. “Then we kill the dragon and leave.”

“Eager to be gone?”

 _I miss Cullen_. “I hate it here.”

“You seem to hate many things.”

“Not as many as I used to, but still. You’re right.”

Cass smiled at her, her whole face lifting with it. As Clara looked at her and the unusually light expression, she couldn’t help but think of how pretty she was when she smiled. They both frowned too much. The Inquisitor was willing to put coin down that Cassandra had always been told she would be prettier if she smiled more as a child. The thing Clara had had the hardest time learning was that she didn’t _need_ to be pretty all the time. Cassandra didn’t have to be that doll in the cage she had never wanted, didn’t _have_ to be pretty when she smiled.

They were friends, a hard relationship forged through more than a year of protection and mutual need. Cassandra had needed someone to change the face of Thedas and save those who had been wronged and Clara needed protection from the Mark on her hand and the grasping nobles who thirsted for recognition and vengeance. Now that she was the Inquisitor and Cassandra was just the Seeker it put them more on level ground. It made up for those differences in age and social station, made them equal. Clara felt admiration well up inside as she looked at Cassandra, her _friend_ , strong, resolute, determined.

Cassandra parted with a demand that Clara sleep. Still looking out for her, still worried for how she handled herself, she was that wall the Inquisitor needed to lean on. Earlier in all of this Clara had kept pushing and pushing to see if she’d break but she never had. She’d simply bent over until they were right where they started, the Inquisitor too worn out from shoving as hard as she could and Cassandra all the better for being tested like that. She was so much more flexible than she gave herself credit for.

That night as Clara lied there wrapped up in Cullen’s shirt, she had another one of those wistful dreams for the future. This one was hazy, not hard and razor-sharp like those dreams of Cullen were. The child was different this time, it was a boy with curly strawberry hair and bright blue eyes. She got the feeling of freckles and affection from him, from the way her and Cullen held him in their arms. Most of it was knowing she was happy, knowing Cullen was happy, a sense that they had made it. They’d won against all odds, he wasn’t as sick anymore, she had moved on from those old petty hates and had a _family_. Mages never dreamed of happiness like she felt in those dreams but Maker did she _want_ it.

She woke up with her joints aching and her thigh burning from the poultice. Healers changed her bandages and checked on the burns the ice had left on her. New pink skin was showing through the pieces that had flaked off, freckles dark and angry amid the stinging flesh. They put a salve on her and set her off to go and burn more of the quarries, the last of the reaching red nodes going up in flames and thick black smoke as the Inquisitor watched. Sahrnia would probably never be as it was before, but the red Templars wouldn’t have any reason to stay without the lyrium calling out to them. That song on the edge of her consciousness finally stopped scratching at her and she didn’t realize how much of a relief it was until it was finally gone. That implacable restlessness and rage subsided a bit and as the choking smoke drifted away with the wind into the setting orange sky. In the distance, they could still hear the screams of the Highland Ravager, their mark for the next day. It made eerie background noise to the crackling of the flames and the residual groans of the red Templars left to burn in the quarries.

They all retired early that night, get as much sleep as possible before they have to go and throw themselves at a beast that had already eaten nearly a dozen soldiers before they stopped approaching. It breathed fire, _thank the Maker_ , she wasn’t going to be useless for this fight. Its nesting area was small and probably wouldn’t take much baiting to get to come out. In addition to its clutch of eggs it also had a swarm of dragonlings. She had had a circle of drakes but they had already been lured out and killed, probably aggravating the dragon further. As Clara retired that night she tried to rub it all out of her eyes, willing the fear of getting roasted alive from her body. They had plenty of potions, they’d be _fine_.

She didn’t dream that night, instead electing to take more of Vivienne’s draught. As much as she loved the way she felt in the dreams, it was a strange kind of crushing she felt when she woke up and found out it had all been fake. Everything felt so _real_ , just like it had months before when she ached for something more with Cullen. These dreams left her irritable that she didn’t have it, a knot of fear and anticipation for the future hard in her gut. It was better to go without and not be distracted while staring death in the face.

They rose when the sky was still rosy and struck through with those thick black pillars of smoke from the quarries. No one talked much in the morning chill, everyone electing to be silent as they chewed their breakfast. Cole sat by the medical tent, head and foot tapping out a rhythm as he forced himself to listen in an effort to remember who he was. He was easier to talk to but there was a different kind of sadness in the way he spoke now. Adjusting to being human seemed to take more out of him than anyone thought it would.

The walk to the nest was long and twisting, lined with pools of water that threatened to make you slip and boil in the hot springs. When they got to the crevice she had roost in a swarm of birds flew overhead, followed by a rumbling scream as the dragon slithered in to meet them.

She was large, and angry, and _large_. She had a piercing scream that had them all on the ground, Clara pressing her head in as if she were afraid it was going to come apart. The dragon took the opportunity to swipe at whoever had been closest to her, the unfortunate soul being Solas. The rest of the team recovered relatively quickly save for the elf. He remained limp on the ground pressed against a rock and Clara exchanged a look with Cassandra before they nodded and went to work. Cassandra distracted the dragon, Cole stabbing fast and hard into her legs while Clara ran to Solas and attempted to resuscitate him.

A few quick slaps and he was awake, albeit a little dazed. Clara had been readying her fourth blow when his eyes opened and he seemed to register what was going on. Her hand didn’t connect; instead she helped him stand and they both joined the fray.

The entire place smelled like burning flesh, no ice or snow having lasted long enough in the heat to wash it clean. There were bones and bits of animals strewn around and the air was choking, it was practically an oven, the air shimmering in the heat. Smoke and burning flesh and sweat, it had Clara’s eyes watering as she tried to freeze some part of the dragon, slow it down before it killed anyone. It _screamed_ something awful when it finally fell to the ground, smoking blood pooling around it as it struggled, a horde of its children crawling out of the cracks to snap at their ankles.

It wasn’t over fast, and it wasn’t over easily, but they did it. Clara passed out right before the end, a fireball melting her wall of ice and pulling her under as her lungs screamed for air. She woke up to the corpse of the dragon twitching, Cole ripping his dagger out of its eye, and Cassandra tugging her back to consciousness. Disgust and anger at herself for not being _strong enough_ spread through her limbs and settled heavily in her chest. Her mood blackened as they spread out ice to kill the remaining eggs and only grew worse as they marked off the towers they had secured and finally got back to the keep.

The damage to everyone was assessed and determined to be not as bad as it could have been. Cassandra had the worst burns out of anyone and Cole had the least. No healers were sent to Clara’s room that night, many of them going to go and heal Cassandra, peel the burned skin off of her back and rub life back into her. Clara was given a jar of ointment and a few bandages to take care of herself with.

Her right hand was badly burned across the palm. The cream soothed the burning on it so fast she almost cried from relief, limbs shaking as she rubbed it over the small burns on her leg and the parts of her ribcage where her tunic had caught on fire before she passed out. Her skin was angry and swollen but it felt better after she rubbed the cream on and bandaged them. It only lasted for about an hour, though, before they became too hot again and she was left tossing and turning, trying to soothe them with ice spells that only agitated her right hand.

The sun and the page that came to get her for the ride back to Skyhold found her sweating and feverish from a night of no sleep and constant discomfort. She dressed in loose clothing that offered little wind resistance but it made her burns more bearable, wind cut right through the bandages and stopped her burning. The ride back took seven days that she had trouble recalling. She couldn’t grip the reins properly and she was sure one of her burns was infected, her breaths short and fast with a constant burning in her left leg that was somehow so much _worse_ than the others that riddled her body.

It was late at night when they reached Skyhold. The sky was a sheet of black with a bright moon hanging heavily in the sky. She dismounted clumsily, her feet getting tangled in the stirrups of her charger, Cassandra and a page catching her before she landed in the mud. Dimly, she heard people speaking and saw leaves skittering across the ground, but the sounds were garbled in her ears.

She was tugged to the infirmary where her bandages were peeled away and cleaned, something nasty and stinging getting stabbed into her infected leg. It _burned_ , hard and red behind her eyes, hurt worse than the dragon fire had, worse than those puddles of too-freezing water that dripped out of the Kaltenzhan’s mouth. She was sure she screamed, or perhaps she hadn’t? It was hard to remember, her vision hazy and fuzzy around the corners, face too warm in the cool air.

The next morning, or perhaps afternoon, judging from the way the sun slanted in through her window, she woke up in her own quarters with bandages wound loosely around her ribcage right under her breasts. Her right hand was a heavy mass of cotton and the bandage on her thigh smelled spicy, like elfroot and spindleweed mashed together. Dazed, she sat up and squinted in the heavy light, looking around her room for a grasp on what had happened.

“You’re awake,” she heard from across her room. The voice was worried and relieved at the same time and _so_ familiar.

“Cullen?” she asked, voice thin and croaky. The mattress dipped down where she felt him sit, his hands suddenly on her and pulling her into a hug.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked immediately.

“You’re not wearing your armor,” she said in dim surprise. She brought up her left hand to knock against his chest, expecting it to ring hollow and metallic but she was met with the warm fabric of his shirt.

“No I'm not,” he said simply, pulling her face out of his shoulder. His eyes were concerned and beautiful in the afternoon light. “How are you feeling?” he asked gently, a hand coming up to turn her face to look at him.

She focused on his face, the action easier than she thought it should be. “I’m _fine_ ,” she snapped, fed up with people asking if she was alright. The look on his face, heavy bags, thick stubble, concern set into his wonderful mouth, had her regretting the ice in her voice and she softened. Her hand thick with bandages  _thunked_ heavily on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. “I feel a lot better.” _I think?_ It was hard to remember the past few days with any real clarity.

“Your leg was infected,” he stated, hand going down to brush at the thick bandage around her thigh. “You had a fever, too. The healers said you will probably scar there.”

She shrugged, a small pit forming at the prospect of another scar. There was a modicum of pride in knowing she had earned it by being the one to not die that time. Still though, the vain side of her did not relish another blemish; she was covered in freckles and birthmarks already, was this really necessary? “Anything else?” she asked, clearing her throat again.

He took a moment to look at her before he rose and poured her water from the pitcher on her desk. Coming back and handing it to her, he told her how she had nearly fallen from her mount in the courtyard and how they’d had to drain the burn left by the dragon. It had upset and infected the talon mark the Hivernal had left on her thigh, she was lucky to be awake right now. His voice was factual but there was thick worry under his words. He had been afraid she would die. He had been afraid she would be _damaged_ by the severity of her fever. He had been afraid she’d never wake up.

“I feel better now,” she said softly, placing her good hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. _I’ll be fine_ , she tried to tell him. She moved the hand to cup his face, his eyes shutting as he leaned into her palm. His stubble scratched hard against her Mark, his own hand coming up to cover hers.

“I wrote you another letter,” he said quietly. “You were back before I could send it, however.”

Her lips curled up in a smile as she rubbed her thumb under his eye. “Could I see it?”

His eyes opened and he gave her _that_ smile, the lovely golden one that made her knees weak and crinkled around the corners of his eyes. The bed dipped and then sprang back when he got off to retrieve the letter. He handed it to her, red faced and hand scratching at the back of his neck as he looked off to the side.

She had some trouble opening it with her hand bandaged as it was, but she managed, eyes looking up to see him. He’d sat back down at her desk and was shuffling around papers, eyes focused on the stack of marriage proposals to her as the flush crept down the front of his neck and into his shirt.

“You can look through those if you’d like,” she offered, his head turning quickly to look at her.

“I didn’t want to ask,” he said sheepishly as he looked at her sideways. “I’ve gotten a few like them since the Winter Palace. I’d rather they were thrown away but Leliana insists on reading them. I knew you were getting them but I wasn’t quite sure what you did with them.”

“Josie didn’t want me seeing them but of course I did eventually,” she said with a shrug, looking down and thumbing a corner of his letter. “I like reading them, a few are… quite ridiculous.”

“You’re not actually considering any, are you?” he asked. His tone was joking but he was breathless, just the slightest bit afraid.

She thought back to those dreams she'd had of a future with him, smiling children with his beautiful eyes and curly hair. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, a flush spreading out and falling fast down the front of her shirt.

“I suppose that was,” he murmured and she glanced up to see him looking at the pile, his fingers pressed to the top. “I could if you wanted me to.”

“Just do it,” she sighed, looking down at the letter he had given her.

“If you insist,” he answered. She didn’t need to look up to know he was grinning, excited to see how others had fallen short of charming her away from him.

The letter he had written her made her face flush. He had never been strong with his words for affection and he never really seemed to know what to say but he had clearly been trying to find a way to word this one. It was long and a few parts were scratched out and written better, the words more sure. It was all how much he wanted her to be safe, how much he didn’t want her to make Cassandra’s job even harder, how much he couldn’t wait to hold her when she returned. He missed the color of her eyes and her lips and her _legs_. He had an entire paragraph devoted to how much he adored them, how much he loved watching her walk both towards and away from him.

Her face _burned_ as she read that, bandaged hand covering part of her face as she read. She had never had a certain fondness for them but to hear him word it, it seemed to be on par with how much she loved his shoulders or his hands or his hips. It was almost obscene how he wrote about it but she _loved_ it. Her legs wrapped around his hips, draped over his chair, crossed as she sat on his couch and distracted him in the best way, it was all there.

She finished the letter and couldn’t get up the courage to read it again like she always did. Her face was burning too hard and he was in the room _with_ her and it just made the entire experience surreal. She folded it and pressed it to her chest for a moment before she set it down on the nightstand and attempted to stand, legs shaky but they stayed.

“Having fun?” she asked, walking over to him. He was holding two letters, face a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he read what appeared to be a marriage proposal from a lord in Montsimmard.

“You enjoy reading these?” he asked, voice confirming his disbelief. He put them down and rubbed at his eyes, a groan pulling free.

“Well your letters are always my favorite,” she said airily as she perched on the edge of her desk.

He grinned at her then, wide and wicked. “I do enjoy writing them.”

“I can tell,” she said with a cough as she turned away, face blushing.

He just chuckled and pulled her into his lap, holding her against his chest. Almost four weeks of missed contact was in the way he held her and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. She was tired and achy and her leg throbbed something horrible, but it didn’t matter so much when his arms were around her.

They stayed chatting in her room for most of the day until dinner was brought up. They ate quietly, Cullen going through paperwork that a page brought him and Clara being soundly forced to rest. He slept in her room that night and the next, held tightly against her as his back pressed into her chest. The second morning he was gone when she woke up, but she could hear him drilling the soldiers in the yard. His voice drifted in through her open trellis and she shook her head at the sound. He was running them hard this morning.

She listened as she bathed quickly and changed her bandages, nothing really bothering her anymore save for the wound on her thigh. Her hand felt tight and shiny but the healers had assured her that the salve would save her from any scarring there. As she dressed, she reflected on holding court with the nobles later that day when the sounds of bashing metal and Cullen’s voice suddenly ceased. She froze in the unexpectedly thick silence and then everything picked up again tenfold. There weren’t clashing swords, but she could hear a large crowd of people speaking, the screams of horses, the shouted commands of _dismount_ and _bring out the prisoner!_

If she had been able to run down the stairs to see what had happened, she would’ve. Instead, she was slowed to an undignified limp as she climbed down, hands gripping the railing as she cursed the number of stairs the place held. She broke into the throne room where she saw Cullen striding towards her, face set and dark. Not _good_ news, then, but it never was anyway.

Samson had been found. He told her blankly, face twisting as he said the words. Evidently, that hate was still in there, rooted deeper than either really could tell. It was thick and heavy and impossible to see, like a rock thrown down a well. It made a splash eventually, but you never really knew how far it had taken to hit bottom.

She judged him immediately, calling for the hall to be cleared and then reconvened. Cullen replaced Josephine, _for obvious reasons_ , he said. She didn’t know if they were vengeance or a need to finally right those perceived wrongs but they still burned bright.

Samson was dragged in and thrown at her feet, his head bowed and skin pallid as he refused to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot and he stank of decay and red lyrium. He smelled like those choking clouds in the Emprise and it was clear he was deteriorating already. He wasn’t the man she had beaten into the ground perhaps six weeks ago. He was a traitor and a coward and he didn’t deserve the formality of a trial. Cullen declared what he had done, admitted his own desire to see him suffer. She assured him his crimes would be payed for.

They almost had a fight right there in the hall. She could see Cullen leaning forward, nearly taking the bait Samson was lying before him. There was truth in what he said, how the Chantry fucked over those who devoted themselves to it. That was perhaps the worst part about Samson; it was clear to see where he had come from and why he ended up destroying the Order.

She tried to shame him with Maddox, but it didn’t work. He just took it and didn’t answer and it was so _infuriating_ she could’ve gotten up and taken his head right there. Her wound throbbed with her heart beat and it felt like all of her blood was rushing to her head, she _wanted_ him to suffer. Had Cullen not interjected, she probably would’ve demanded her blade right there.

The worst of it all was that he seemed _broken_ now, just like Alexius had been. He didn’t deserve the mercy of death.

She gave him to Cullen in the end. It had a poetic justice to it and it left her smiling as he was dragged away. Cullen shared a look with her before he turned to Samson and declared that there would at least be something good to come out of this. _Perhaps_ , Samson could be made to remember who he was. There was a man beneath the red lyrium and burning sword of mercy and years spent scraping by and huffing any lyrium dust he could get his hands on.

The hall was cleared, Cullen leaving her to oversee what was to be done with the former Templar. She wanted to hold her head in her hands or punch something, perhaps smack Bull with that stick of his, but she didn’t. Nobles swarmed her immediately, some demanding greater justice be taken against Samson. Not in the mood to deal with their petty arguments and disputes, she waved them away and fought her way through the crowd. Josephine caught her, however, and had her meet and greet for two hours before she was released.

The sun had started to set already, the sky tinged with pink and the wind whistling quietly in the mountaintops. She took the walkway to Cullen’s office slowly, mindful of her wound and the eyes on her as she walked. It wouldn’t do anything good if people saw the Inquisitor limping.

His office was snug but not as warm as she remembered. There were less candles burning, glowing sunlight thrown in through the arrow slits in his wall. They cast thick stripes on Cullen as he took out his aggression on his mannequin, knives flying fast through the air and sticking sure. As she approached, she could see bits of hay sticking out around the other daggers stuck in it.

He went right into ragging on Samson. He was despicable, he _knew_ what he was doing, he killed all of those people, lead so many down a road they couldn’t turn back from, and for what? He abused the absolution Cullen had given him in Kirkwall and tore down the last vestiges of what they had both been. There was _hate_ there in his eyes and she could see right there how he had been the Knight-Captain in Kirkwall. He had been harder before, she had only known him for almost a year and a half. Nearly a decade of his life was spent looking at those chains and weeping statues and _knowing_ that he was doing the right thing to hold those mages there down. It was a feeling she couldn’t shake off, a lightness in her skull and lead in her bones that reminded her that that lyrium thrum hadn’t always meant _safe!_ to her. It had been fear and watching and Silence, a past she couldn’t scrape off any more than he could.

She accused him of letting Samson get to him, and of _course_ he did, but no longer. He was down, done, finished, he couldn’t hurt anyone else. Had things gone differently, Samson might still be in Kirkwall shuffling out mage children. He might have died of an overdose years ago. He might have been killed in those three years of terror and fighting in the streets. Cullen could have been in his place instead.

That was what rocked them both to core right there. He could have been one of the screaming shadows or hulking behemoths, could’ve been the greasy blood that spilled out when she smacked them into their glittering pieces. He could’ve been another face in Corypheus’ shattered army.

When he asked her if she ever thought about what would’ve happened had she not been at the Conclave, a thousand things to say flashed through her head. Maybe her life would be easier? Maybe she’d still be in the Circle, maybe she would’ve died already. To her, though, the biggest difference was _him_. She couldn't fathom what she would be like now without him, didn’t want to picture a future for her that didn’t have him in it. She ached for that, for what she had never thought she could have, for a husband and children and a _future_ beyond rotting away amid those books and spiders in that windowless basement.

And she told him so. She said it softly, _a future without you? Never_. It really _was_ never now, wasn’t it? She was her because of him and she wouldn’t want to go back to how she was for anything in the world, not when he was warm and solid and so close to her.

He gave her that soft smile and moved to her kiss her, a gentle press of his lips against her own. She was reminded of that lyrium thrum and armor polish smell that stuck right to him and it swallowed her whole. There wasn’t a future she wanted a part of that didn’t have him in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually managed to update it! It's almost at the end now and let me tell you, it's been a wild ride. I would appreciate any feedback on this, especially since it's so close to the end now. As always, tell me what you thought! I love hearing about what went well and what didn't.


	18. Tes bras me gardent en sécurité

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t say much in the darkness of the room. His heart was beating steadily under their hands, the rhythm lulling her into that place that came right before sleep. The fear from earlier melted off completely and reminded her that _he_ was what she was ending this for just as much as everyone else. He was that future she wanted, everything, kids with his gorgeous brown eyes and a ring on her hand and the satisfaction she would get when he would introduce himself as the Inquisitor’s husband. He hadn’t meant anything to her in the beginning but now he was so much she wasn’t quite sure what had been there before. She found it easier not to dwell on it.

She rather enjoyed sleeping in his quarters. It was better, somehow. Perhaps it was because the sheets always smelled like him or it was the thrill of knowing soldiers wandered through his office on their rounds while he slept in her arms above their heads. Maybe it was how he laid there, immediate and warm. He always said he slept easier when she was there, that his nightmares weren’t always so terrible. She believed they were easier to fight away when her chest was pressed against his back, an unconscious reminder that the demons that still clawed at his mind couldn’t hurt him anymore.

Her bed might have been softer and had the added benefit of a _ceiling_ , but after years of living in the ground she found that that hole was comforting. Perhaps not the best when birds flew in or when spiders figured it was a fantastic idea to drop down from the tree and scurry across the floor but it wasn’t as bad as she expected. It just _was_. It was another thing about him, from his penchant for the color red to the way his face scrunched up when he concentrated to how he spoke in his sleep.

She woke up before him that day after judging Samson. They had stayed in his room, her back pressed to his warm chest as he snored softly into her hair. He rarely ever fell asleep before her or stayed down after she awoke, but he managed it. He mumbled things she couldn’t hear until she fell asleep too, comforted by the heavy weight of his arm draped over her and his leg tangled with both of hers. It was solid, a warm reminder that there wasn’t just the war and it wasn’t just about Corypheus still crawling around and looking for his next foothold. She had met someone she loved so much her head hurt, someone that made her wonder at all of those things she had always been told she could never have, someone who made her laugh and listened to her and _cared_ what she had to say. The boys at the Circle had said she was beautiful and she’d believed them, but when Cullen said it to her it was like it sounded different. She wasn’t _just_ one thing, she was there entirely, he saw every bit, saw how there was more bad than good and he still wrapped his arms around her at night.

Her back felt stuck to his chest, her skin still not used to how warm he was. Making sure not to wake him, she pushed his arm off of herself and gently shimmied away. She tried to get up when she hit the edge of the bed but her hair was caught under him and she cried out in pain, eyes watering as she tugged her hair free.

One of his eyes opened to look at her, bleary and confused. He closed it when he saw her half-standing and looking at him through her hair, his arm coming out to pull her back down. It hooked around her waist, strong and unexpected, pulling her back onto the bed as he shifted to lie more on her. The weight of his body was hard against her, his face pressing itself into her neck. She groaned and felt him chuckle in response, whole body shaking along her.

“Trying to get away?” he asked in the quiet of the room. His stubble scraped her skin as he rubbed it against her, eyes tired but awake as he looked at her.

She rolled her eyes but managed to get her arms around him, his body situated in her grasp. “I thought I’d put a shirt on.”

“I think you look fine,” he mumbled, eyes closing and lips pressing against her shoulder.

“Of course _you_ think that,” she said. Her fingernails scraped up his shoulder blade and he shivered in response, her face burning at how responsive he was to her. Then again, all he had to do was look at her and her knees went weak.

“I do,” he said into her skin. “Your freckles are lovely and it’s a shame I don’t get to see them more often.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t say that,” she said quickly, nails still scratching up his back. “I remember when I started getting them. I was four and I kept trying to wipe them off until my mother got me to stop.”

“My younger sister did the same when she started getting hers. She said she was dirty and kept asking our mother to bathe her.” He smiled into her shoulder at the memory, a short chuckle shaking them both.

“Your sister has them?”

“And our father. Red hair too, though not as… _orange_ as yours.”

She rolled her eyes but still brought a hand up to thread through his hair. “My hair is not orange.”

“You don’t see it when you’re outside,” he answered, leaning up to look at her. “It is in the sunlight.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips, soft and gentle. When he pulled away he brushed his lips over the corner of her mouth, eyes closing as he hummed quietly.

“Spend a lot of time looking at me, then?” she asked. It was meant to just be something to say while she blushed at the thought of him watching her but his eyes opened and a dark red spread over his face.

“You never noticed?” he asked.

“You watching me?” She thought back to all of the War Table meetings, all of the sparring in Haven and the courtyard, how she constantly avoided looking at him. Her face burned even harder at the pettiness and hate she had held for him. “I never saw it.” After she had moved past how sick the lyrium cloud around him had made her she’d been more focused on watching him than she had been on seeing if he was watching her.

“Oh. Well, I _do--_ did. I did.” He looked away from her face and cleared his throat, bridge of his nose a dangerous red.

Her arms tightened their hold on him, his awkwardness endearing. Her heart thudded heavily against her chest with affection for him, the idea that he had fallen for her before she had taking something heavy off of herself. “Anything you were looking for?” she breathed, pushing his face back so he’d face her.

He looked at her with those eyes and her heart thudded again. It was like she was still getting used to the fact that he was just as distracted as she had been in the beginning. He looked forward to her seeing him as much as she did. He worried about her leaving and fighting bandits the same way she worried about him and those lyrium chains still fitted loosely around him. They both held that secret fear that one would die and be sent to the other in a box.

“In the beginning?” he asked, exhaling loudly. He sank more fully onto her, pressing her into the mattress. “I couldn’t stop looking at you, you were… captivating.” He leaned down and pressed another kiss to her lips, longer and harder, his nose brushing against hers.

“Captivating?” she asked against his lips, eyes opening to see him blush again.

“For lack of a better term,” he muttered. He rested his chin on her chest and brought his free arm up to cup her breast.

Her breath hitched as he softly kneaded her, but she staunchly ignored the way it made her gut clench and how he chuckled at her. “When we got to Skyhold and were spending more time together, I have to say, I started to like you more.”

“I’d hope so,” he mumbled. “Otherwise this whole thing is going to be very awkward.”

She laughed at that, a snort ripping free. She covered her face with a hand and squeezed her eyes shut, still shaking but laughing more quietly. Despite how comfortable she was around Cullen, there were still years behind her of being scolded for her laugh.

He grinned up at her, his hand moving down her ribcage to pull them both together. She jumped at the press of his fingers, another giggle squeezing itself out. The grin on his face grew wicked and her laughter was cut off for a moment before he started tickling her. It was vicious, terrible, horrible, completely uncalled for, it made her _laugh_ even _harder_ , huge snorts ripping themselves free as he sat up to get better leverage and continue his torture. He was _relentless_ , laughing along as she was driven near to tears. He only stopped when she started wheezing out that she was going to throw up _right there_ if he didn’t.

She was curled up in a ball and looking up at him through watering eyes on the mattress, hair a mess and sides aching as she held them. He was looking back at her, flushed and still laughing, hands half-poised to strike again. A strange combination of rage and excitement had built inside of her and she couldn’t quite tell if she wanted to scream at him or press him into the mattress and grind into him until he was practically crying her name.

The opportunity to decide never came up, sadly, as one of the doors in his office was thrown open and a soldier called up to them.

“Ser? Are you alright?” he called. “We heard a scream.”

Her gut dropped out of her as she sat up, pulling the blanket around herself even though she _knew_ he couldn’t see her. Cullen looked down at her, whole body flushed, and then turned away to look at his ladder. “Everything is fine!”

His damn soldiers and their fucking ears. If she was interrupted by them one more time she’d find them and _freeze_ them. They all knew she was here, they could have probably heard her last night, probably heard _Cullen_ last night. She was pretty sure one of her socks hadn’t made it up the ladder either and was sitting conspicuously on the floor by a stack of papers they had knocked over. The Inquisition boasted some of the best spies and soldiers this side of Thedas had seen and yet they couldn’t quite seem to _comprehend_ the idea that perhaps every sudden noise wasn’t a situation they needed to _address_.

“Are you sure?” The sound of heavy metal-clad feet walking on stones drifted up. “I have a report about the Templar Samson for you, ser.”

Cullen stiffened but didn’t make a move to get up. “Yes, _thank_ _you_. Just put it on the desk.”

“Sister Leliana also--”

_“You are dismissed, soldier.”_

Clara could hear the exasperation in his voice and had to pull the blanket to cover her face, half in embarrassment and half for the fear of laughing at how intent Cullen seemed. The soldier made himself scarce, the noise of clattering boots and mail jingling up and punctuated by the door slamming shut. Cullen groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he turned to her.

“His voice was familiar,” she said quietly, bringing a hand out of the blanket to touch him. Her palm rested on his hip, skin warm under fingertips. She dragged her thumb over a birthmark and he groaned again, sitting down properly on the mattress.

“He’s one of my and Leliana’s correspondence soldiers. He’s the direct line between me and her.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand, his other going to her arm and giving her a squeeze.

“That’s the soldier that bothered us at the inn in Ferelden, isn’t it?” she asked, voice going dangerously soft.

He peeked out from between his fingers at her. “Don’t do anything to him, he means well.”

“He means _too_ well,” she sniffed. She pulled her hand away, a sudden question burning in the back of her throat. Her eyes met his and she turned her head to the side, curiosity and the need to test outweighing the apprehension that was building in her chest. “Cullen, that night at the inn, if he hadn’t knocked at the door…” she trailed off, trying to think of a better way to word it.

He seemed to catch her drift seeing as he turned four different shades of red before settling on one that was both violent and pervasive across all of the skin she could see. Still though, he brought the hand away from his face and looked right at her, golden eyes and lyrium thrum burning her. “You want to know if we would’ve…?” he asked, clearing his throat.

They were both sitting there practically naked and he still couldn’t seem to bring himself to say it. She'd heard him nearly get sick laughing at some of Bull and Sera's jokes, but he'd always taken physical things with himself differently. “Had sex?” she asked frankly. She figured it was better to just kill it now than drag it out and watch it bleed.

“I honestly don’t know,” he breathed out. He ran a hand through his hair and let it hang on the back of his neck, face waxing pensive as he stared past her. “I remember I wanted to so _badly_ , I didn’t even hear the first knock.”

She flushed at the memory of him above her, hips still rolling and pressing into her, his lips swollen and eyes dark. “Why didn’t we?” She knew why _she_ didn’t: she was afraid of ruining something, of going too far, of pressing him in the wrong spots.

“I wasn’t sure--what if you hadn’t-- _I_ didn’t want to push things too fast,” he finally said, settling on himself as the reason. He still didn’t bring his eyes to hers, instead electing to examine the wall behind her head.

 _Too fast_ , she thought, half dizzy. _He didn’t want to take it too_ fast. “You thought we were going too fast,” she said blankly.

“Did _you_?” he breathed. He turned to look at her, worry and fear of having said too much painted across his pretty face.

“I wanted…” she said, pausing as she considered what she had wanted. It had been _him_ , any part of him really, from just pulling his shirt off to seeing his face between her legs. Her face flushed at the thought, the memory of that night at the inn mixing with one of her more recent ones. “I would’ve been okay with you doing anything to me right then,” she settled on saying.

He started coughing, the blush that had been fading returning with a vengeance. He covered his face with one hand while the other fisted in the knee of his pants. A breathless laugh came from him, the kind he made when he was embarrassed and not quite sure what to do with his hands.

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, shoving her own embarrassment over the admission to the side. She _trusted_ him, she _wanted_ him to know what he did to her, what he had always done to her. It was hard to think around him, just having him nearby made her chest hurt and her gut clench. When he put his hands on her it felt like she was going to throw up but it was so _good_ , like a bow being drawn tight and then released. She loved him and his soft words and gentle touches and burning sincerity. She loved it even more when he wasn’t so gentle with her, but she kept that part quiet. He already looked liable to combust, she didn’t need to add to it.

They sat there talking until another knock sounded on his door soon after the first. By then the sun had risen completely and it was time for her to be the Inquisitor and him the Commander. They dressed quickly, a few kisses stolen in between the straps and pieces of fabric. The soldier waiting below had the decency to look embarrassed at watching the Inquisitor climb down the ladder before the Commander, but she still stood there impatiently. Clara retrieved her sock and hair elastic from the floor by Cullen’s desk and left.

She stopped by Josephine’s office and asked her to let the other advisers know that a War Council would be summoned in an hour. That would give Cullen time to go over what Samson had given up and he could present it. Hopefully, there would be something that could lead them to where Corypheus had slunk off to and they could just go there and end it. Morrigan had already let them know she had a way to level the field in killing his dragon. All that was left was the magister.

Clara bathed, finally removed the bandage around her thigh, and went through the letters that had accumulated on her desk. As much as she would have rathered to soak in the lukewarm water, Josie had informed her that there was a letter that had come from Ostwick for her. Normally she would have disregarded it or just put it away, but perhaps ignoring her family wasn’t the best idea anymore. She wasn’t the angry girl stuck in the Circle anymore. It was time to grow up.

Climbing out of the water into the cool air of her room had goosebumps prickling on her skin. She wrapped herself in her robe and sat down at her desk, eying the stacks of letters and paperwork before she picked up the one Josie had carefully laid out on the top.

Her father was still using the same stationary as he had when she was small, it would seem. It was her family crest in the wax seal, _Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed_ printed in light ink along the edges of the envelope. It wasn’t addressed from her father, though, and it just had _Clara Trevelyan_ as the recipient. All of the letters she had gotten in the Circle were from him or his desk, and the ones she had gotten since joining the Inquisition had just been to _Her Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan._ She broke the seal with a small ball of dread growing in her gut.

It was strange to read a letter from her family after so many years of forced isolation. Her brother had written this one and it was short, scrawled in his tight hand without the little flairs her mother’s had. Clara could still hear him saying everything, though his voice was probably different by now. He wanted to know how she was doing, didn’t ask why she had never answered their parents’ letters, just wanted her to answer this one.

He wrote that one of mother’s friends had been at the Winter Palace and had been quite intrigued to find that the Inquisitor was _that_ Clarissa Lucille Trevelyan. Her mother had nearly had a fit at the estate and had to be talked down from going to Skyhold immediately. Her father was the one to thank for that, he had always been so level-headed. Lothaire himself was well, though mother was bothering him to get married. Ridella had been married four years previous to a merchant from Jader and had just had her second son. Were the rumors about her and the Commander of the Inquisition true? Mother had heard about _that_ and had nearly had a heart attack. If she could manage a reply it would be much appreciated.

She set it down and considered it for a moment, limbs feeling strangely weak as she looked at it. A strange combination of anger and nostalgia bubbled up in her chest. Reading his familiar handwriting had reminded her how much she missed her siblings. She had always gotten along well with her brothers but Jules had died and Lothaire had always been too stoic to come to the Circle. Seeing her sister again sounded nice, though it was strange to think that she had _kids_ now. There had been no mention of Adelise, though it wasn’t surprising. Either the red Templars had taken her or she’d died somewhere along the way or she just didn’t want anything to do with Clara, the stain on House Trevelyan’s honor.

But perhaps her brother still wanted something to do with her. That was enough.

She didn’t write a response to him right away. Instead, she went and started the War Council, sharing a heavy look with Cullen before the other advisers drifted in. Once Morrigan managed to rip herself out of the garden and join them, they began.

The air was tense and they argued, but they all decided that Corypheus needed to be finished once and for all. Samson had given valuable information but it was only when they all put their heads together and her Mark started popping sickly did it become clear. They came to the only _logical_ conclusion as to where the magister was, how he was calling for her. Haven seemed to be a better and better place for him to hide the more they argued, the new Breach still pulsing sick and green in the sky over it. So they scheduled the march to begin in three days, Morrigan assuring everyone present that she had a way to combat Corypheus’ dragon, seeing as without it, he would surely be as killable as any regular darkspawn.

Clara had a little trouble believing Morrigan when she said that, considering the smirk on her face and the glint in her eyes, but she _had_ been there to kill an archdemon, so she supposed she had to know what she was talking about.

The meeting was adjourned and the advisers filed out to begin the preparations for the march. Clara was left alone at the table to stare at the pieces they had moved and the dust motes glittering in the filtered sunlight. Leliana had been set on contacting the Hero of Ferelden, though it seemed to be moot at this point. If they even managed to find her, it was too late for her to actually _do_ anything. Though perhaps they could offer some solace to the King of Ferelden that they had found his wife.

She stayed in the War Room for an hour, feet itching and dreading leaving. The nobles in the hall were no doubt rabid and would want _something_ from her because all they did was bother her about the most inane things. _The Empress says such lovely things about you, It is amazing you held this position as a mage, How does a Marcher come to be here?_ It was terrible, horrible, the worst, even more awful than Cullen’s tickling assault from earlier. Though when he had done it it had been _endearing,_ terrible only because of the intensity of her muscle spasms and tolerable because of the immense joy he seemed to take from it.

When she finally walked out, Josie saved her. She kept her in the office for a few hours to sign off on letters and forms that would be sent to their various allies to inform them of the Inquisitor’s decision. It all felt like a dream, like it wasn’t really happening. She wasn’t going to start the march to throw herself at Corypheus in three days, she wasn’t going to have to slay his dragon, she wasn’t going to have to try and close the Breach again. Soon she would wake up and her hand wouldn’t be cramping from signing so many letters and she’d be pressed firmly in Cullen’s grasp.

Lunch was sounded and she was released to go and wander the grounds in her daze. Everything felt slower and she didn’t eat much, not particularly _hungry_ after hours of signing her name away. She didn’t see much of anyone, what with how much they were running around Skyhold. Cole managed to find her, though, and sat with her on top of the battlements as everyone scurried around so far below, like ants. He pointed it out when the ravens began to be released from the rookery, each one bound for a different stronghold or castle.

It was calming to watch, even as the sun started to set. She could hear Cullen bellowing orders in the courtyard and the nobles swirling around, a few readying their carriages to depart. They didn’t want to be around lest Corypheus, for some reason, decide to take the fight to the Inquisitor. Clara knew the idea in and of itself was ridiculous but it had happened before. And now it would appear that he was squatting on the remains.

Cole’s presence was comforting, albeit in a strange sort of way. He was all constant chatter though she could understand it now, and he understood the gratitude he felt for her better than he had when she had brought him to that small restaurant in Val Royeax. He was sweet, smarter than he thought he was, he was getting better at understanding that perhaps the most immediate way to an end was not the best. He didn’t try to soothe her worries, he knew _boundaries_ more now. He didn’t try to follow when she finally got up to retire for the night and she was grateful for that much.

She undressed quickly in her room, eager to lie down and let the day sink in. She could still hear Cullen in the courtyard, yelling out to his men and the people shuffling around. A smile ticked at the corners of her mouth as she listened, finding his coin in her breast pocket as she undressed. She held it between two fingers, thumb rubbing slowly over the worn-off face. The scent of metal was barely there but she managed to catch it, so similar to his armor polish and lyrium smell. The thought to have it added to a bracelet or necklace came to mind but she shelved it for later. Perhaps she’d ask Dagna about it tomorrow; she was always eager for new projects and really hadn’t had much to do since they’d finally captured Samson.

Clara set it down on her desk by the letter from her brother. She considered responding to him _now_ for a moment but decided that putting it off for another day couldn’t hurt. She hadn't responded in six years, surely he wouldn’t miss another day.

The sheets were cold when she climbed into bed but she put it out of her mind. Her stomach rumbled quietly and she groaned, burying her face in her pillow. Skipping dinner after hardly eating lunch had probably not been the best idea she’d ever had, but she wasn’t going to get up now. She wasn’t even sure if she _wanted_ to eat. The way her temper went, she was more liable to throw it up than keep it down long enough to get anything out of it.

She didn’t quite fall asleep that night. Her eyes were too cold and the roof of her mouth was dry but she didn’t get up, _couldn’t_ get up. She had woken up that morning feeling wonderful in Cullen’s arms and she was ending it alone on her mattress. It seemed a poor way for it all to go and the base of her skull ached with it, the promise of a nightmare skirting around the edges of her vision. She didn’t need more dreams of twisting green demons or those reaching spires of red lyrium.

Sitting up was surprisingly hard, but she managed. She scooted over to her nightstand and took out the bottle Vivienne had given her, the viscous black liquid inside coming out in a small glob. It tasted sickeningly sweet, extremely cloying on her tongue and made her stomach growl in response. Clara pushed away the combination urge to vomit and eat something and laid back down, curling tightly into herself as she squeezed her eyes shut, _daring_ those dreams to take her now.

Right as she finally slipped into that stupor right before sleep, she heard her door open. Her limbs were too heavy to let her turn around but the weight of the footsteps coming up her staircase were familiar and heavy. Cullen had never been a man for stealth but she could hear the effort he made not to wake her as his armor gently thumped against the chest at the edge of her bed. It took him a few moments, the sounds far-away in her head, until he was finally stripped enough and she felt the heat of his chest against her back. She let him turn her slightly until she was on her back and he could press his face into the crook of her neck. Sleep came easily after his arms were around her.

The next day was mostly a blur after she woke up. Cullen woke her before he put his armor back on and she managed to convince him to take a bath with her. It was calm, the stress from the day before melting out into the water. He let her rub her hands over his tired muscles, sighs of relief coming from him as she worked her fingers into his shoulders, her lips brushing over his neck.

It was calm and warm and she couldn’t stop the ache that grew in her gut. She wanted him to take her right there in the tub, her chest beating out her affection and adoration for every inch of him. It went past how much she loved how he looked or the way he held her. He was more than his sincerity and staunch loyalty: he was all of that put together the _right_ way. Ferelden really _did_ grow its people differently, he was tall and golden and so _sweet_ yet he was willing to do what needed to be done. He didn’t relish in what his sense of duty made him do, but he did it and he had too much compassion to let it be compromised.

She drifted around in the tub to face him, his hands sliding easily over her from the soap in the water. He moved up her legs, pulling her to straddle him and they both moaned at the contact. She kissed him, her eyes screwed shut as his hands moved over her, one finally settling on cupping her breast while the other one pressed into her. She couldn’t _breathe_ , the air in the room was too heavy and he was able to play her body too easily.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, his face practically shoved into her chest as she rolled her hips on his fingers. He was warmer than any person had a right to be, his skin searing her where they touched. It was like a rushing in her head, her blood pulling too fast through her veins. His lips kissed a line up her chest to her shoulder, his teeth biting hard enough to make her cry out and push her over that edge she’d been teetering on.

She could practically taste his smugness as she tried to control her breathing. His hand was still between her legs, holding onto her thigh while he brushed his lips over the shoulder he had bitten. When she was able to breathe properly again she rubbed her hips against his erection, relishing in the groan it dragged out of him. Moving her lips to kiss him, she sank down onto him, the choked noise he made lost as she kissed him.

The pace she set was fast and the sounds he made were _wonderful_. He hid his face in her neck, breath ghosting hot over her damp skin. He was marvelously vocal whenever she touched him, a confirmation of how deep he was in this. She was vaguely aware of the sounds of water splashing over the edge of the tub and onto the floor but it was nothing to her compared to him. The way he moaned her name had her own climax building again, her knees burning from the speed and position she was kept in. The thick feeling of him inside of her was _incredible_ , the slick way he stretched her burning them both up. When he finally came she was itching for her own release, her hand pushing away his shaking one so she could finish herself faster. He was wonderful, fantastic to her, but he was still a mess as he tried to get a hold of himself.

His arms stayed tight around her until she wiggled in his lap, legs aching to be stretched. He let her go, face still flushed as he watched her stand in the tub. She caught his eyes as he watched the water slide down the remainder of her body, looking at the fresh scar the dragon had left on her, his face coloring even more when they landed between her legs. Those eyes flicked back up to her and she had to push down what they did to her. They were beautiful and made her useless and as much as she wanted to just spend the day with him, there was a _march_ happening in two days.

She climbed out of the tub, her knees cracking as she stretched on the floor of her room. Cullen followed her out and almost slipped on the puddles on the floor but caught himself on her. They stumbled a bit but managed to stay up, a grin sliding out easily on both of their faces. His hands settled on her hips while she twined her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her for a kiss. It was _sweet_ , his hands held onto her gently, nothing like how he had held onto her before. As his mouth slid with hers, she found that she couldn’t even comprehend what she would have done had he not been there. She’d still be hard, more of a wretch than she was now. If she had never gotten over that shield of duty she would have never had all of those sweet dreams about him, never softened.

She kissed him harder, trying to press all of those fears about who she had been into him. He would take them, she knew it, and he’d hold them because she _couldn’t_ anymore.

The rest of the day was another blur of nobles and letter writing. Clara managed to get away and give Dagna Cullen’s coin to make into something she could wear. Dagna promised not to break it and was under pain of death from the Inquisitor should something go wrong. The dwarf was brilliant but _did_ run the risk of nearly blowing Skyhold even higher every day.

Clara spent some time with Dorian before retiring. It was late at night when she finally got to see him, dinner have been cleared away hours before. She snapped angrily at him when he tried to suggest she get some rest, the bags under her eyes were getting dreadful. She didn’t _need_ rest, she needed people to stop bombarding her with useless questions. She _needed_ this to be over. She _needed_ to write her brother a letter and find an explanation for being six years late with it.

Guilt hit her as she stalked away from him but she was already halfway down the spire before she felt the need to apologize. Old pride still flickered deep in her chest and had icy anger creeping up her back. It pushed the guilt aside and settled in the base of her skull, cold and hard. She brushed past Solas and his call of concern and went straight for her own quarters where she sat herself at her desk. Silent anger beat wave after wave against her as she stared at her brother’s letter. Her fingers pressed hard against her scar as she looked at it, eyes unfocusing and scrambling the words. She _wanted_ to write that reply but she was too mad, her hands were shaking too badly and her eyes stung.

Truth be told, however, the longer she sat there, unmoving in her chair, the more it felt less like anger and more like fear. Fear of her parents, the Circle, Templars, Corypheus, _dying_ , it was all there. She had never really been afraid in her life, aside from that threat of Tranquility before her Harrowing. Being clubbed over the head and brought to the Circle, that old Templar with the cold sword, staring down the dragon at Haven, _those_ were the times she had been afraid. Everything else had been just there, but now she had so much to _lose_. She had friends and a future and she loved Cullen so much it hurt and the thought of going up against Corypheus and losing it all was _too much_.

Cullen found her at her desk with her head in her hands, half asleep with a stack of letters strewn all over the floor. His warm hands on her shoulders startled her awake and made her knock over another pile. As the letters settled and she ground out a tired apology he just shook his head at her and pulled her to stand. He hugged her tightly, her eyes closing slowly as she buried her face in his mantle. The metal of his gorget pushed into her collar bone and the plates were cold but his arms were hard and sure around her, a support she needed.

He was quiet as they went to bed that night, her chest pressed against his back as he laced their fingers together. It would’ve been funny to see such a large man wanting her to hold him but she wasn’t that petty anymore. He was more than the Commander who stood tall and broad in his armor while he conducted troops; he was human, weighed his words before he said them, craved the contact she was so ready to give him.

Sleep that night was heavy and blank, the lack of dreams welcome. She woke up when he tried to disentangle himself from her embrace, skin sweaty where he had been stuck to her. Everything was bleary and her joints ached but she still managed a smile when she saw him looking at her. His hand smoothed the hair away from her face and he smiled back but it looked sadder than it should have. His thumb brushed over her cheek, an unconscious habit he’d developed. She covered his hand with her own and met his eyes.

He sighed and leaned down for a kiss but she grabbed him and tugged him back onto the mattress with her. The surprised laugh he let out was worth the way he practically crushed the air out of her when he fell on her. The heaviness in his eyes seemed lifted when he hovered over her to kiss her, his nose mushing against her own. She could taste the smile on his lips, felt the easiness of it in the set of his shoulders. He was afraid for her but they could have these little moments in between the impending doom. After all, the march was tomorrow morning.

When they dressed it was still early morning, a few birds singing softly outside. She buckled his breastplate on for him, his joints aching from the withdrawal. After cinching the straps, she placed a small peck on the back of his neck. The skin there was warm and she spotted a small freckle he had, a smile stretching across her face as she hugged him from behind, short and tight. It was just a sudden rush of affection, a fire in her head that burned a bright _I love you!_ into the inside of her skull.

She kissed him one last time before he left to go and oversee movements again. He was in charge of the march itself, the one who would delegate formations and troop size. It was who would stay at Skyhold and who would go and fight their way to Corypheus, in essence. They didn't have much in way of troops left, many of them still returning from the Arbor Wilds. So the soldiers they had left split, one half staying while it was decided that the other and her Inner Circle would be the ones to toss themselves at Corypheus. While her own job was difficult, she didn’t envy him. She was too hard to make the right decisions, and perhaps too emotional as well, though she clamped down on that possibility before it took root. Her _mother_ was emotional, all sobbing and extravagance. _Clara_ wasn’t that.

It was still early and many of the nobles weren’t out for blood yet. Clara found her feet dragging her to Dorian’s small window room in the rotunda, an apology already forming in her head that she _knew_ she wouldn’t be able to say. Still though, he seemed to take her standing there and rubbing her face in shame as enough and said he accepted. That was the wonderful thing about Dorian: he was an ass most of the time but when it counted he could be decent. He said he hated long speeches and she did too, and perhaps they both had a better understanding of each other than they thought. She didn’t enjoy speaking and he loved the sound of his own voice, but there were things words seemed too small to convey.

As much as she wanted to stay with him and just _sit_ with him, the march was in less than 24 hours and Josephine was having a fit organizing meetings and inspections. There were meetings filled with generals from the troops and Cullen himself was there, presenting what the plan for the march was to her. It was all just a formality, really, she hardly knew anything substantial about armies and delegations of that sort, but she still needed to hear what the plans were. Even if she didn’t understand them fully.

They were released in the late afternoon, the heavy light burning Clara’s eyes as she made the mistake of glancing directly at the sun. Scrubbing at the tears, she cursed quietly. It was a stupid thing to do, she was the _Inquisitor_ , and 15 years in a basement was no excuse to forget that looking at the sun hurt. She stood there pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes until she felt a solid hand clamp onto her shoulder.

Her heart nearly climbed out of her throat at the scare but she managed to swallow it back down and somewhat back into place.

When she turned, it was Cassandra. Really, who else could it have been? Few people in the compound had the nerve to approach her openly, let alone touch her. The Seeker was concerned about her well being, her words holding their usual strength but cut with those undertones she saved for her friends. It was soft, a comfort and reminder that Clara didn’t have to get pulled under by herself. Cassandra could prop her up better than anyone else could, she _was_ that shield in front of her, the sword in the dark that had saved her life so many times. And she would gladly walk into the magister’s hole at the Inquisitor’s side.

Cassandra roped Clara into sparring with her for a bit before the light went completely. It wasn’t serious, neither wanted to explain why the other had seriously damaged the other before the march but it was clearing. Clara felt her mind put more at ease, the heaviness in her limbs good, better than when they felt like lead. Fear wasn’t weighing her down as hard as it had before, the burn in her muscles chased that incessant nagging ache away. She ate dinner with her group for the march, Solas drinking more than was perhaps necessary, but she wouldn’t begrudge him a few glasses if he was going to throw himself at _another_ dragon with her. She was also glad he agreed to come with her again after she had slapped him awake in the dragon’s den.

The thought of sleep was a nice one after dinner. Her limbs still held that pleasant ache and she wasn’t as irate as meetings usually left her. She climbed all of the stairs to her room and shut the door behind her, already eager for Cullen to stomp in and wrap his arms around her.

She wandered over to her desk and looked at Lothaire’s letter again. It was still sitting there, crisp and unanswered. The wax seal had chipped off a little, a few pieces scattered around it on the desk. The purple chunks were stark against the tan of her blotter and she couldn’t help but think of all of the crests that had hung in her estate when she had been small. She had been 11-years-old with suspicious eyes and ears that were too big for her head as she twisted her head around, looking for pictures in the interlocking lines. She had never found any.

When she sat back down at the desk she read the letter through again and got out her own piece of stationary. It felt official as she wrote her reply, finally. She was doing fine, she was glad he had contacted her, yes, most of the rumors were most likely true. It felt too short and stiff so she wrote a quick joke at the end about the messengers around here and how they were just so slow, that’s why this letter was a bit late. Letting out small, short snort of laughter as she heated the sealing wax, she took a small modicum of pride in her joke. Everyone had always said she was so humorless but Cassandra and Cullen laughed at her jokes. They thought she was _funny_ and she was. She was the goddamned Inquisitor, she could be funny if she tried.

Instead of retiring early like she had originally planned, she waited up for Cullen. He came slogging up the stairs late, the moon high and heavy in the sky. He gave her a tired smile when he saw her, his arms scooping her up immediately and holding her tightly. She returned it, her arms hooking under his as he breathed her in. His beard was thicker than it should have been and it scratched at her skin but it was too familiar to her to be bad. He was tired, his sleep wasn’t restful enough, but he still got up in the morning, often times before she did.

He peeled the armor off slowly, each piece set gingerly on the chest at the end of her bed. When he was just in his breeches he climbed in the bed after her. She fit herself easily into the crook of his arm as he laid down facing the ceiling to ease his aching back. Her lips brushed over his shoulder, a sigh escaping him as she pressed a ginger kiss there. Their fingers laced together over his chest, his thumb brushing those soothing circles into her skin.

He didn’t say much in the darkness of the room. His heart was beating steadily under their hands, the rhythm lulling her into that place that came right before sleep. The fear from earlier melted off completely and reminded her that _he_ was what she was ending this for just as much as everyone else. He was that future she wanted, everything, kids with his gorgeous brown eyes and a ring on her hand and the satisfaction she would get when he would introduce himself as the Inquisitor’s husband. He hadn’t meant anything to her in the beginning but now he was so much she wasn’t quite sure what had been there before. She found it easier not to dwell on it.

She wasn’t sure if he slept at all that night because when she woke up he was still there, alert and examining the wall over her shoulder. There were bags under his eyes, heavy purple things that made him look older than 33. He looked at her when her eyes opened, those lovely Ferelden brown eyes tired and fearful. She brought her free arm around him and pulled him closer, his eyes sliding shut as she pressed his forehead against hers. She wanted that fear gone, wanted him to stop worrying about her and keeping himself awake at night wondering at things she wouldn’t _let_ happen.

“I love you,” he whispered in the hard morning light.

“I know,” she murmured back, her hand moving to cup his face. “Cullen, I-”

“Don’t say it,” he said quickly. He pecked her on the lips, face scrunching before his eyes opened to look at her.

“Don’t say what?” She shifted her body closer, tried to press herself against every edge of him.

“Not to worry,” he said quietly. He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand, right over her Mark. “I’m still going to do it.”

He knew her too well. “I was going to say I loved you too,” she lied, not wanting to admit how well he read her.

His short chuckle said _Sure you did_ but he didn’t say it because that’s what she would’ve done. He was so different from her, honest and kind and not nearly as petty as she was. He made her want to be _better_ and she was reminded again that she was fighting for him too, for the chance to wake up next to him every morning without the Inquisition in the courtyard.

The morning after that was fast. They dressed in silence, a long embrace in the middle of her room being all that they shared before he left down her stairs with a small glance back. He was still scared but he didn’t say it, didn’t have to. They knew it, it wasn’t worth saying there, that fear in him hadn't broken yet. Clara was left standing on her rug, listening to the sounds of his footsteps until she couldn't hear them anymore.

She left her room with the letter to her brother and her armor. A page she found on the way to the courtyard was the lucky soul who got to find a messenger to give it to. He took it and nearly jumped away, terrified and awed by the Inquisitor’s presence. She was thankful she didn’t need to thank him for the basic task, head too heavy this morning for the simple niceties other expected of her.

Dagna approached her in the courtyard as she was saddling her horse to leave. She handed Clara the coin adhered to a thin silverite chain, strong enough to withstand practically anything and light and long enough to wear under her clothes. The Inquisitor thanked her with a thick voice, unsure of how to express her gratitude.

She managed, though, and Dagna was all smiles to begin with. She left with a nod and a spring in her step as she left to finish overseeing the enchanting of the weapons for the soldiers. Clara looked at the coin for a moment before she scanned the crowd for Cullen. It was almost time to leave and he she couldn’t see him. She pulled Leliana aside and asked if she had seen him. When she had said she had not, a small, strange pit formed in Clara stomach and she wandered off to find her Commander.

She found him in the Chantry, bent over and fervently praying to the Maker. He was startled when she walked in and saw him there on the floor, his piety laid out on the altar steps. His voice was gruff and thick as he spoke, that quietness he’d held for the past few days finally breaking as he said how scared he was. He couldn’t lose her now, not here, not like this, he couldn’t believe he was _handing_ her to Corypheus like this.

He held onto her tightly and she let him, burying her face in his mantle for both of their comfort. Again, words had never come easily to her and she wasn’t spared that limitation as he held her in the Chantry, their bodies swaying slightly in the filtering light. She didn’t know what to say so she just held him tighter, pressed herself to him as if to say _This will_ not _be the end_. She had come too far and she loved him too much to let anything stand in her way now. There were hundreds of other times she should have died but she hadn’t and she would make sure this would be one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry this one is a few days late. I started spring break and I thought I would have more time but everyone seems to want something from me. Anyway, here it is and I'm both excited and sad to see it end, but I have a series of one-shots planned for when this is over because I just love writing about them.
> 
> On that note, I also opened a writing-only tumblr and would really appreciate it if you could check it out. It's [jellopunch](http://jellopunch.tumblr.com) and I accept prompts on there for pretty much anything dragon age related so if you have something you want filled, just send an ask. I actually really enjoy writing small things and will take other inquisitor's aside from my own.
> 
> So as always, please let me know what you thought, felt, how it went, etc!


	19. Mon avenir est avec toi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I love you,”_ she mouthed against his chest. His skin tasted like sweat and she could feel his heart beat right next to her, his skin jumping slightly.
> 
> He pressed his face harder into her hair and breathed in, his body curling around hers. There was a closeness there that she had only ever felt with him, something in the way his body fit hers. It was like they snapped into place so easily, like there was no other purpose either was made for past just holding the other. Her heart was beating in her head, loud and heavy along with that lyrium cloud that covered her like a blanket. He was warm and familiar and she had never felt better in her entire life than she did in his arms.

The march took five days. The snow had built up vicious dunes that hid flat, hard planes of ice. A few soldiers went down on them, as well as Dorian, more than a few breaking bones or damaging their organs as they slipped and slid. The ground was dangerously soft on top, white and powdery, and underneath it was solid and dangerous.

The walk wasn’t so bad. The light palfrey that Clara had walked easily on top of the snow while the destriers a few of the lieutenants had punched deep holes in the ice. The nights were better than the days, though they were bitterly cold. The wind flapped at her tent, set her body to odd shivering in the night.

She took to warming her hands as best as she could and rubbing the life back into herself, the biting air still not as bad as that burning cold water the Hivernal spat. It wasn’t much, but it helped. She shivered when she was otherwise, the feeling strange. She hadn’t been truly freezing since she’d risen out of the snow after Corypheus’ dragon buried Haven, and even then it had been more exhaustion and fatigue than true cold. It would’ve been funny, she guessed, that _she_ of all people was cold, had it not been constantly freezing. There was also the constant voice at the back of her head that whispered how much she missed Cullen and how much warmer the nights would be if he were there, but she ignored it. Getting heartsick like she was liable to wasn’t _exactly_ the best battle strategy.

The closer they came to the ruins, the thicker the air the grew and the warmer the ground became. Those curling nodes of red lyrium were reaching up through the hard-packed dirt, and they sounded something _awful._  She could hear it now, scratching at the corners of her ears. As her Mark popped and burned up her arm she heard that discordant sound, out of tune and horribly _red_. It was like someone was screaming from across the valley, agony and years of oppression ringing in the wordless wail. She could ignore it if she tried, but the closer they came the louder it was.

As she looked around at the soldiers and her companions, stumbling around the pillars of lyrium and crumbling remains of the town, she could see they heard it too. A combination of the Breach and the taint in the lyrium had them all itching to run and cover their ears, anything to make the air stop _crying_.

The magister saw how disoriented his lyrium made the soldiers and took full advantage. He managed to wreck a few before he got away, the ground ripping free beneath their feet, the air he left behind stinking of years of isolation and rot. They finished off the demons he left behind, his dragon spiraling down and roaring his disapproval until Morrigan threw it the rest of the way, carving it up so it couldn’t fly off again. She was tossed aside down the floating mountains while the red lyrium dragon screamed, that discordant song beneath its skin singing out for an end.

They rushed it, eager to just make it _stop_. Her head itched and her feet wanted her to turn and run, get away before it touched her, burned her to the ground where she stood. The dragon didn’t roar, it just _screamed_ , wings flapping and blood spattering everywhere. It smoldered where it hit, her scarves and tunic going up in smoke as she frantically tried to put it out.

It _burned_ and screamed but it finally went down, Cole’s daggers planting right in its eyes. A few more shallow movements and it was done, gone, dead, body giving way for Corypheus’ turn at the end he needed.

He threw everything he had at them, and it was fucking too little. As Clara fought him, the dragonblood still speckled and dried on her breastplate, she was overcome with disgust again. He was _pathetic,_  a failure, perhaps the Maker’s greatest joke. His attacks glanced off of Cassandra, he ignored Solas, and he tried to scream what he wanted Cole to be, but he didn’t listen. It was all a failure and she couldn’t _believe_ this was the same thing that had leveled the people here more than a year ago. He was _useless_ , more pitiful than all his higher ups that she had already crushed.

When she finally ended it, ended _him_ , she zipped the Fade up over him and he was gone. The orb was broken, the magister’s last screams still echoing around the valley, and Clara was left breathing in the burning air. Everything was silent save for the settling dust and then everyone seemed to collect themselves at once.

The remaining soldiers ran up with the rest of her companions, Solas brushing past the Inquisitor to cradle the remains of the artifact, a strange kind of regret written on his sad face. She said she was sorry it had broken and he barely answered, just said he wanted her to know he respected her. She looked away for a moment, Cassandra tearing her attention away, and then when she glanced back, he was gone.

She didn’t have time to wonder where he went, Cassandra instead pulling on her and checking for injuries. Bull batted the Seeker away and crushed her into a tight hug, her spine cracking with the force of it. He smelled like sweat and death but Clara felt herself grinning because under that cloud of lyrium and burning demons it smelled like _victory_. The disgust she had felt for Corypheus melted off and was replaced by that giddy joy that came with _winning_. It felt like all those won arguments in the Circle, all those children she made cry but so much _better_. It wasn’t about pettiness or vanity or jealousy; it was the sweetness of killing a main adversary, the sudden, gripping relief that she was in control of her destiny and that she had a _future_.

That night was good, the worry for where Solas had disappeared to in the back of her mind, the same place it had been when he disappeared in the Exalted Plains. He would be at Skyhold, he just needed to cool off, he’d be there and he’d apologize for running off again. Perhaps they’d find a way to fix the artifact, better understand what had happened. Dagna would probably salivate for a chance to experiment with it.

Each night on the return felt like it was building up towards something, though. They sent one of the birds they had brought to Skyhold to tell them of their victory, but even so, the hike back would only take six days. It was all uphill, and the Inquisitor found herself too tired at night to join in the parties the soldiers held for their victory. She had no interest in waking up buried in the snow with Bull, a headache pounding in her head and her mouth tasting like regret. The nights passed with blessed sleep, her Mark no longer aching up her arm. It was nice, even without Cullen lying next to her, just to be able to sleep without the threat of impending doom. His shirt made it better, a reminder of him. Her dreams were easier, no nightmares of green demons or air that burned a bright red.

When they finally crested the last hill and Skyhold came miraculously into view, it was suddenly as if no one could be home fast enough. As the crowd began to scream around her, a few ravens flew overhead, no doubt released from their cages to alert Leliana of their arrival. Not that she would have any trouble spotting the party from her tower.

It felt as if the ground was shaking underfoot as they approached, snow kicking up and spitting away in glittering clouds, the sunset shimmering through each flake. The roaring of the crowd was soon bumping in time to Clara’s heart and all of the horses hammering through the snow. It was loud and her chest hurt and the wind was stripping her face but she was burning with anticipation. She was almost _home,_  she had come back like she said she would. She hadn’t died yet, like she should’ve at the Conclave, Haven, that day Cullen kissed her for the first time, or the night they were interrupted at that inn in Ferelden. The evening was cool and guilt and worry weren’t sitting heavily in her gut like a stone.

They crossed the bridge slowly, the wood and masonwork clacking and reverberating with so many coming in at once. The crowd waiting inside was thick and pressed in, each person seemingly holding a lantern with their faces turned towards the returning party. The glow was eerie, illuminating them from underneath. It probably would’ve been unnerving had Clara spent time looking, but she was too busy scanning the crowd for the Commander, her hands distracted as she pulled herself from her mount and onto the ground.

He came up suddenly and forcefully, breaking through the crowd to pull her into his arms. Her face was shoved into his mantle, the fur stuffing into her mouth but it didn’t matter because he was holding her and Maker preserve her, she never wanted him to let go. She hooked her arms under his own and held on tightly, pulse thudding in her head as she tried to listen to what he was saying. It was _something_ , light words tickling her ears but she was suddenly so tired she couldn’t make them out. All of that pent up anxiety drifted out of her chest and settled in her hands and feet, made her feel tired and loose. It became more that he was holding her upright than just hugging her at that point.

It seemed like forever that he held her in the courtyard, lyrium thick in the air as he kept himself wrapped around her. The embrace was dizzying, the heat of him apparent even through the plates and mail he wore like a shell. It was _wonderful,_  he was wonderful, but all she wanted to do right then was go to sleep with him next to her and not have to get up in the morning. The rush from killing the magister had died away those return days and had left a certain contentedness she couldn’t recall having ever felt before.

“Love, put me down,” she murmured quietly, her hands tugging on the back of his gorget.

He huffed but listened, setting her down until she felt the shallow mud squish under her boots. Those hands she loved loosened until he was just holding her hips, face saying he didn’t seem to really care they were in the middle of the courtyard. That game they had played for so many months was put aside for now and the _way_ he was looking at her could’ve been enough to kill her. Maybe it had and this feeling of peaceful anticipation was what the Maker’s side felt like.

He had a smile on his face, a small soft one that eased the heaviness of the bags under his eyes. She wanted to _kiss_ him, get him to hold her like he did when they were alone. The interest for being surreptitious had fled as soon as Skyhold had come into view but she still couldn’t bring herself to do more than gently tap her fingernails against his breastplate.

“I told you I’d come back,” she whispered to him.

The smile grew wider and crinkled his eyes and he looked so _happy,_ she felt her heart constrict. “I never doubted you.”

She tried to crush her grin down but it came up anyway, a soldier to her right jostling her as they moved past with her horse. “Do we have anything scheduled for the rest of the night?” she asked, already thinking ahead to her room where she’d press her lips to every inch of his skin.

“Just the debriefing,” he said, his hands squeezing her hips. “Josephine has a party planned for two weeks as well, but for now, there’s nothing.”

Clara’s eyes closed at the prospect of blessed inactivity. “A party. I can handle that.”

“You have time to get used to the idea of it.” He wrapped his arms around her again and hugged her tightly for a moment before letting go and grabbing her hands. He rubbed those small soothing circles and her chest _ached_. She loved him so much her fingers tingled with it, her heart beat differently when he was around. He made her regret all of those years of ice and malice and he was that _future_ she wanted. Mages never had a life outside of their Circle but now she had him and the Inquisition and a home and _friends._ That piece of greatest resistance between her and her happy ending had been crushed down at Haven and it felt odd to have everything else stretched out before her.

The compound was buzzing as everyone was taken away to the rooms under the battlements for the debriefing. It was just a formality, several scribes taking notes on what the Inquisitor said while her advisers watched and listened. Corypheus’ dragon had been gored by the apostate Morrigan and then finally killed by a dagger to the eye, delivered by Cole. The magister himself met his end at the hands of the Inquisitor herself, sealed away in the Fade where he either awaited certain doom or had perished already. Solas had disappeared after the battle and had yet to return to Skyhold, along with the shattered Elvhen artifact. Scouts would be sent out to the site to collect samples of red lyrium and the shards for Dagna while a missive would go out calling for volunteers to help rebuild Haven. Letters would go out shortly to release many of the soldiers from service.

It was all very civil, really. There was little said about Solas and no one really seemed to miss him much. Everything was happening all at once when the meeting ended and no one wanted to dwell on where he had gone, and the _night_ began. Trestle tables were thrown up in the courtyard and casks were opened, the ground greedily sucking up the ale that sloshed over the sides. The soldiers that had finally returned from the Arbor Wilds were there, screaming along with the rest of compound. More lanterns were lit to fill in the gaps left by the moonlight, the glow of the evening warming up.

The Inquisitor’s presence was required, though the want to retire somewhere else without the loud blaring of the assembled band was strong. These people, the same ones who had bent over for her at Haven and sang out their unity in the snow, demanded her presence with their devotion. She was uncomfortable with the weight of it all, but Cullen stood beside her through it, warm and solid and thrumming blue.

Clara had managed to press herself off to the side of it all after she bathed and put on a loose dress, a bottle of Rivani rum handed off to her by the bartender with a grunt that she took as a sign of good will. It tasted like the imported fruit from Llomerryn she had tried as child, sweet and thicker than Ferelden beer. Her limbs tingled with the warmth from it in the chill from the fringes of the party, face warm and flushed but not wholly uncomfortable. Everything was dulled, simpler, as she watched the crowd get drunker and more willing to perform stunts on the tables.

“How did I know you’d be over here?” she heard Cullen ask through the cloud in her head.

He had come up next to her, mantle and parts of his armor removed. “You know me too well,” she said, tongue thick. Squinting at his state, she wrinkled her nose through her smile. “Missing something?”

“Bull upturned an entire cask on me and Josephine insisted I was made presentable,” he stated with a huff as he moved to sit down next to her. She readily moved over on the bench and pressed herself into his side when he was situated. He laughed as she brought his arm over her shoulders and she hid her grin in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him she had missed so much.

“You smell like beer,” she commented. Still, she took a deep breath in and let that lyrium burn wash over her and settle right over the liquor in her gut. Her heart thudded loudly at the rush she got just from having his arm around her and he tightened his grip, held her more tightly against his side.

“You smell like rum,” he said, picking up the bottle she had been drinking out of. “ _Sweet Fire-Syrup,_ ” he read off the label on the bottle. He made a face down at her and she just shrugged.

“If you’re not going to have any then give it back,” she said, reaching for it.

He held it out of her grasp and took a swig. The noise he made at tasting it was halfway between disgust and a gag. “It tastes like candy,” he said, wrinkling his nose as he handed it back.

She just shrugged at him and took another drink. Perhaps it was too saccharine, sweet and thick, but it was better than the lava whiskey he kept in his office. “All of your drinks taste like paint,” she pointed out as she set the bottle back on the table.

He was looking down at her with those _gorgeous_ eyes of his, dark and glittering faintly in the orange lantern light. His lips twitched up into a faint smile, adoration written in his eyes and her heart was beating much too fast for it to be healthy. His soldier’s hands were wonderfully warm as he rubbed those soothing circles into her skin with his thumb, the action unconscious and just another thing she loved about him. He was so _Ferelden,_ from the roots of his hair to his golden brown eyes to the way he softly asked her if he could kiss her.

There was a moment of apprehension before she nodded slightly, the fear that someone would see a fleeting thing. A hungry need for people to _know_ they were together held her tightly, had coiled around her head and made her dizzy whenever he was around. She knew he didn't need the confirmation from her, he didn't need to ask but he had said he loved the way her face softened whenever he did. She delighted when he was gentle with her like that; it only made the times he _wasn't_ so soft that much better. He was _hers_ , _ex-_ Templar Commander Cullen slept in her bed at night and kept her grounded.

She sighed into his mouth as he kissed her, lips searing hot and slightly chapped but it was just as good. He tasted like the rum had, sweet and wonderful on her tongue. That lyrium cloud nearly overcame her, had her groaning into the kiss as he deepened it. He knew exactly what he did to her and he took full advantage, his hand going to the back of her neck while his other came around to rub over her legs as he arched over her. Oh, he was _horrible_ and so good at it too. Where a chantry boy had ever learned half of the things he knew, she’d probably never know.

“I love you,” he murmured when he broke away to lean his forehead against hers.

She opened her eyes and saw that his were closed. “I love you too,” she whispered. She brought a hand up and held his face, felt his sharp stubble against her palm and brushed her lips against his cheek as he leaned into her touch.

“Josephine and Leliana had to stop me from riding out to meet you, when we spotted you over the hill.” He turned his head and kissed her palm, cupping her hand with his.

“That would’ve been something to see,” she said, sleepy. “My beautiful commander riding out like a knight in shining armor to sweep me off my steed.”

“It wouldn’t have been _that_ impressive,” he chuckled, the sound rumbling through her and settling in her gut.

“You’re _very_ impressive, Cullen,” she said, a slight slur chasing her words. She leaned forward and kissed him again, his lips smiling against hers. She pulled away only to have him start pressing soft, _burning_ kisses down her neck. "Just like the knights in my books from when I was little."

"You don't seem the type for knights," he murmured, lips brushing against her neck. Her breath hitched at that, her hands coming up to curl in his hair.

"You're still good for some things," she managed, a soft moan slipping out as he tugged her dress strap to the side and bit her shoulder.

He chuckled into her skin, pulling away to lean his forehead against hers. "One of them being this?" he asked, voice _so_ quiet in the hazy air.

Clara could hear a few bards still singing but it was mostly the rest of Skyhold muffled down to a dull roar and ignoring her in her corner. Over it all, her blood buzzed in her ears, rum and Cullen's lyrium thrum burning her alive from the inside out. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a few times, anxious and wanting, biting her lip as she swept her eyes up to meet his.

She would never get tired of looking at his eyes and seeing the way they changed. His pupils always dilated and came back a little, _beautiful_ brown squeezing around in golden rings. They were heavy and she could feel them on her skin, knew the way he examined her freckles. She bit her lip even harder as his eyes landed there, his tongue sweeping across his own before his eyes flicked back to hers.

The ferocity of his kiss had her gasping, all the air completely gone from her lungs. She couldn't _breathe,_ all she had was the feeling of his mouth sliding against her own, his tongue, the beautiful sounds he made whenever he kissed her. It would have been obscene if she were watching and someone surely _was_ watching; they weren't exactly anywhere private. That just added to the intensity of it, had her breathing a whimper into his mouth. There was a thrill that came with it, the same she had felt when he'd kissed her on the battlements and when he'd swept his desk clean and laid her out on it. He had a certain flair for the dramatic that made her gut flip.

"It feels like you missed me," she murmured when he broke away, both of them trying to catch their breath.

"It was hell waiting for news," he said as he brushed his nose against her cheek.

"You shouldn't worry so much about me." Her lips pressed to his again, quick and soft. "I'm never going to let anything stop me from coming back," she whispered, eyes screwed shut against the orange glow on his face.

He pulled her against him so tightly then that all the air was squeezed out of her. She could feel him shaking and for a terrifying moment, she thought he was crying before she felt the smile he pressed into the crown of her head.

"You're laughing?" she asked incredulously, voice muffled by his shirt.

"I'm just glad you're safe," he managed in between chuckles, his laughter subsiding.

"Oh," she said blankly. Her arms tightened their hold on him and he sighed into her hair. "That's good, then. You were much too dour before I left."

"Would you rather I didn't tell you?" he asked dryly.

"No!" she exclaimed. "I'm just... glad you don't need to be so worried anymore."

He chuckled again before letting her go to give her some air. He was looking at her with that soft smile that crinkled around his eyes again and her heart melted. He was _gorgeous_ in the flickering firelight, clean shaven and happy. Those Ferelden brown eyes were looking at her with such raw affection she blushed under his gaze. She wanted to tell him she loved him but he _knew_ that already, so she just grabbed his hand and pressed it to her face.

His hands were hard and scarred and so utterly _him._ He cupped her face easily, the rough pad of his thumb tracing down her scar. _Maker_ , how she adored him. He was still so new to her, someone she couldn't bear to lose. It was something so far past sex or his honesty or the way he handled her, she guessed it was just about him in entirety. He was _there_ , completely and wholly _there_. It had started with her barely able to look at him and now she couldn't think of a more beautiful sight.

"Your room?" she asked quietly. The question earned her another chuckle, this one lower and significantly heavier.

"You're always complaining about the hole in the roof," he teased, but stood with her nonetheless.

She was grinning, flushed and eager like an apprentice as they made their way along the edges of the party towards the stables. Cassandra managed to catch the Inquisitor's eye as they passed and looked about ready to say something before she saw the way the Commander was clutching her hand. She turned away with something like a smile on her face, Clara's chest blooming even more at the gesture.

She tripped a little as he pulled her up the stairs, face burning in sudden shame and a bit of anger as she cursed at her boots. Cullen didn't bother to wait for her to stand, instead sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her the rest of the way to his room. One arm was under her knees while the other held her securely to his chest and she loved the easy laughter that bubbled out of her as she threw her arms around his neck. She kissed him soundly as he fumbled to open the door, grinning into it as he opened and then kicked it shut behind him.

He placed her down by the edge of his desk, not bothering to lock the door before he came down on her. His hands held her hips firmly, fingers digging into her and forcing her to back up until she hit the wooden lip. She let out a squeal of laughter, chest so loose and head wonderfully clear after the rum. He only hummed into the kiss for a moment before breaking away to press his lips against her neck, mouth eager and insistent.

It escalated fast, her blood rushing through her ears as she rolled her hips against his, frustration mounting. There were too many clothes and his lips were hot against her skin, searing her. She could already feel how hard he was and how he was pressing himself up against her like their clothes weren’t there. The friction was _wonderful_ , but it wasn’t enough, and he seemed to get that when she grabbed his hair and yanked his head away from where it had been working on her shoulder to crash her mouth over his.

He moaned so loudly into the kiss he had to break away, his hands rubbing over her thighs. She was still rolling her hips insistently with his, her hands leaving his hair to brace herself on the desk. It was so _much,_  all of the relief she had and affection for him rolling up into a tight ball that settled like a knot in her gut.

Her head rolled back when he hiked her legs up over his hips to get a better angle to grind into her. Her smalls were still on as were his pants but she couldn’t seem to care right then. The feeling of him pressed up so hard against her was rushing through her head and she couldn’t _think_ past the need to keep her legs locked and buck against him. Her fingertips tingled with magic and she could feel every place he was touching her so sharply she actually _whimpered_ when he pulled away to unhook her legs.

“ _Cullen-”_ she started, voice raw, but he cut her off with a kiss to her knee as he lifted her leg to pull her smalls down.

He knelt down in front of her to help her with her shoes, hooking her knees over his shoulders and she felt her desire tighten as her foggy mind registered what he was doing. He started kissing a line along the insides of her thighs, her muscles shaking from snapped anticipation and want. His stubble scraped her wonderfully and she moaned softly when he hit the apex of her thighs, the kiss he planted there more reverent than anything else.

She let him work her for a few minutes, his mouth too wonderful for him to have really been raised in a chantry. He was a _blessing,_  and the noises he made were almost as good as he was. It had _never_  been like this with the boys in Circle. She had never really let them touch her past what she wanted in the moment but now, sometimes when she thought of what she wanted Cullen to do to her, her face burned. It was  _obscene_ but he never seemed to think less of her for it and it always lead to them like this, her pressed against something while she was wailing his name. When he broke away to get a hold of himself, a rushed _Maker_ spilling out, she tugged his head away before he could ruin her against the edge of his desk.

He had the _nerve_ to smirk at her when she used her leverage to hook her legs around him again. It didn’t last long, sliding into something more heated when she let him go to yank his pants down. She didn’t have the patience for anything right then, her head thick with him and blood rushing too fast through her.

She couldn’t keep in the way she cried out when he pressed easily into her, pulse thundering in her head. The pace he set was hard, pounding her against the edge of the desk as her arms shook from the effort of trying to stop herself from falling off. It was like she was burning alive, she couldn’t hear anything but she knew the way he was groaning her name like he couldn’t hear it enough, that he had missed her, needed her, _loved her_. It was so _much_ that she couldn’t take it in all at once.

The force of his hips had been knocking her further back onto the desk, her muscles shaking as he leaned over her, an arm wrapping firmly around her lower back so he could bend her to kiss her neck. The feeling of his lips on her was terrible in the best way possible. Her entire body was flushed but somehow he managed to be all hot skin and burning kisses, his movements so sure as he _grinded_ himself into her, hitting her just the way he knew would have her nearly sobbing his name as she came. Her release had been building until it felt too tight, like her skin was smothering her. She was openly whining now, nails scrabbling at his back as she desperately rocked against him, barely concious of the way he bent her to get a better angle. All she got was that it  _worked_ , sensation and emotion cracking hard against her as she stuttered out his name, the force of his hips breaking her words.

When she finally came, her legs shaking and teeth locked into his shoulder, that ball of tension in her gut just _snapped_. She felt tears squeeze themselves out, her hands clenched on the back of his shirt, affection for him and the waves that washed over her reducing her to a mess as she panted against his skin. She was too sensitive, so aware of his hands as he held her and how he was moaning and not caring about the noise. His hips were pushing even harder now, a small whimper breaking from her at each thrust. She could feel every place he was touching her, how he was pressed up inside her, pulling her along after she had tipped over the edge, the sensation overwhelming as she whispered a choked _please_ , she couldn't take the way he was grinding into her when she was still so sensitive.

He came with a muffled groan of her name, his muscles shaking under her fingertips. She felt his release, rolled her hips and moaned softly at the feeling of him inside of her, squeezing her legs around him hard enough to make him gasp. His face was buried in her shoulder, hot breath ghosting over her neck as she rubbed her hands over him, kissing the parts of skin she could expose.

“I love you,” she breathed, still panting against him. The words felt too small to convey how she felt right then and it felt cheap to say, but he still grinned into her and lifted himself up.

“I love you too,” he murmured, pulling away from her with a groan that echoed her own. She felt achy and bruised but it was good, the soreness familiar and she felt a tingling warmth in her limbs at the simple fact that it had been  _him_.

“Do you want to move upstairs?” she asked, limbs so wonderfully loose. She wasn’t even quite sure if she could stand yet, she could feel her legs still trembling slightly.

“We could, unless you want to sleep on the desk,” he said with a shaky laugh. She could see him pull his pants back up and a crooked smile grow on his face. He moved close to her, his hands resting on her hips as she stretched up to kiss him.

“That would give the runners something to talk about,” she said against his lips.

He laughed, pulling her up into a hug. She hooked her legs around his hips, holding on tightly as he bent to retrieve her shoes and smalls. He handed them to her as he walked to his ladder, her arms tightening around his shoulders as he scaled it. She delighted in how easily he carried her, how effortless it seemed to be to him. It was a rush she’d never get tired of.

He let her crawl up once he hit the top, pulling himself onto the loft after her. She’d already managed to tug her dress over her shoulder and almost had her supporter off by the time he got over to her, grin wicked and hands so sure as he held her. It didn’t take long before he had her against the wall, her cries filling the empty air of his room as she clutched at his back. She never seemed able to get enough of him, of this closeness. Those months spent in wanting frustration were so far away now, she wasn’t even sure how she had managed them without losing her mind. Perhaps she had at the time, just a little bit.

He got her back to the bed after being slumped against the wall together grew uncomfortable. They were lying there on their backs, blankets pulled up to their waists, watching as the moonlight bled in through the hole in the roof. The party could still be heard outside, however faintly, as it was dying down. The room was quiet, though, the sound minimal as they soaked each other in. Clara’s skin prickled with the gentle gust that blew through, but it was pleasant. She was pressed snugly into Cullen’s side, one arm under him while the other was resting on his chest. His fingers were tugging at her own absently, the action an _old_ habit at this point. The arm he had under her neck was pressed up against her back, warm and solid in the cooling air of the room.

“You know,” she murmured into his skin. “Maybe you should keep your ceiling the way it is.”

She felt him chuckle at that. “You were complaining about it earlier.”

“It's nice to have, now that I think about it.”

His arm tightened behind her and she pressed her lips against his shoulder in response. “What changed your mind?” he asked quietly, his thumb starting to rub gentle circles into her back.

“You can see the stars,” she murmured.

“You could go on the battlements for that,” he pointed out but she could hear the smile in his voice. He was just trying to get more out of her, pull praise and get her to admit that she actually _liked_ something for once.

She pulled her hand out of his and started tracing lazy circles on his chest. His skin shivered slightly at her touch. “I can see them from your bed, though.” She stopped her hand and looked up at him to see him grinning at the rafters. “Unless you’d prefer I got up to go see them,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“No, I would _very_ much rather that you stay,” he said as he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. He brushed a kiss over her fingers, her chest tightening at the affection in the gesture.

“Good,” she said, wiggling closer to him. “I’m not planning on going _anywhere_ for a long time.”

The sigh he breathed rang with relief. “You have two weeks, to be sure.”

“I’ll probably have to go on a tour after that, won’t I?”

“Not unless you decided to.” His thumb had started brushing over her hand again, the action comforting and familiar. “At this point, you could do what you want and our allies would be hard-pressed to find a reason to disagree.”

She thought on that for a moment before she shimmied out of his grip to lean over him. She propped herself up on an elbow and brushed his hair back with her free hand, sweaty curls familiar against her fingers. Leaning down to kiss him, possibilities scrolled through her head. She could do _anything_ now. The Inquisition was still there and she still had a job to do, but it felt like everything was winding down. She had to hunt down any straggling Venatori or red Templars and wait until a new Divine was elected before she could do anything to press the war down, but she was _free_ to do it at her leisure.

“Any ideas for what I could do?” she breathed against his lips when she pulled away.

She felt the grin his lips pulled into against her own and nipped him. He groaned in response and she celebrated that small victory, loved those little things she could do to get him to bend the way she bent for him. His arms slid around her and pulled them flush together. His skin touched hers everywhere and she shivered at the contact, a blush spreading up from her chest.

“Did you have anything in mind?” he asked after collecting himself for a moment.

“If I went on tour,” she started as she began pressing kisses along his jaw. “Would you be coming with me?”

He swallowed thickly but his voice was steady when he spoke. “All of your advisers would accompany you.”

“Just my advisers?” A kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Is there anything else you could see yourself as in the future?” Her lips brushed over his own for a moment before she moved to the other side of his face and repeated the motions.

“In particular?” he asked. His hands tightened on her for a moment before he relaxed.

“Mhm,” she hummed, her teeth skimming his ear. “I remember you saying you didn’t want to move on from me.”

He was silent for a bit, taking in her words while she worked at his neck. His stubble scraped at her teeth as she bit him there, intent on a mark she could see over his armor. “If I asked you, I’d want to do it properly,” he said eventually, slowly, testing his words.

She pulled herself away from his neck to look at him, her hair falling over her shoulder and spilling onto the pillow. “And how would you do that?”

“A ring, for starters,” he said. His hands slid up her back and pressed into her. “Preferably while I’m wearing trousers.”

A laugh bubbled out of her, her face practically splitting from affection. “Alright then. Before that, though, we should talk.”

“About?”

“What we _want._ ”

“Like a family?” he asked quickly, voice cut through with sudden excitement and apprehension.

She looked at his eyes, at the way they traced her own searching for _something_. “Is that what you want?”

“I’ve never really _thought_ about it, to be honest,” he admitted. “So many Templars never get married, I put the idea of it away.”

“I never considered marriage,” she said slowly, pulling up those old Circle memories. She freed a hand to rub at her scar, mind crawling back so many years. “It’s not allowed and mages can't keep their children.”

“So you _want_ kids, then?” he asked, voice suddenly breathless.

She came back to herself and looked at him sideways. He definitely seemed excited now, eyes shining and mouth forming the beginnings of a surprised smile. “I’d always thought they were terrible. But I’ll admit I’ve thought about _yours_.” _Thought about it_ was an understatement, but her face burned at the prospect of admitting that she desired children with him far more than she saw as personally reasonable. “I’ve never… _wanted_ to be with anyone but you, Cullen.”

He rolled them so they were on their sides again. He pulled the blanket up to cover them as a breeze whistled through, a few stray hairs fluttering over Clara’s face. She spat them away while he tucked the blanket under them both and pulled her to him, her face fit snugly against his chest. The steady thrum of his heart matched the pulsing of that lyruim she could feel right under his skin. She pressed her face closer and breathed in, eyes sliding shut with his easy warmth and heavy arms around her.

“What were you like, before we met at Haven?” he asked quietly, his chin resting on the crown of her head.

“Nearly exactly like I was when we met.”

“ _Before_ then, Clara.”

The emphasis he put on the words made her sigh. “You mean when I was in the Circle, then,” she said, pressing her face harder into his skin to muffle her words.

His hands rubbed up her back, his nails scraping lightly. “I’ve told you what I was like.”

“I know. You didn’t like who you were.” _I don’t like who you were._

“Neither did you.”

His words weren’t accusatory or hard. He was soft with her, sure hands and words that coaxed her to lay out more of himself so he could press himself into her in different ways. She had done it to him, weeded out those heavy failures and carried them for him with surprising ease. “I’ve told you I wasn’t… _good_. And that I had other boys then.”

“I still like hearing you say it.”

“Any particular reason?”

“You’re not like that now. You always feel better afterward. I love you,” he listed softly, a hand going to her hair and massaging her scalp. Her eyes slid closed with a groan as he rubbed her head, his fingers catching slightly on her old scar. “Pick a reason.”

She faked a sigh and he chuckled at her. “The boys in the Circle always called me beautiful but it was always when we had sex. It never mattered to me but when you say it, it’s like it sounds different.” She pressed her lips to his chest. “I love you for that.”

His arms tightened around her as if trying to pull her closer but she couldn’t be pressed against him any harder than she already was. “You make waking up easier,” he murmured into her hair.

“You used to make me afraid of how I felt, but I wouldn’t want it any other way now,” she admitted quietly, heart in her throat.

“I never thought you were a bad person.”

“I’m _proud_ of you.”

“You make it all worth it.”

She wanted to say _You too_ but her throat was too tight. He’d been dragged through hell and back, had his life burn down three times and he held _her_ as the best thing to have ever happened to him. He was perhaps the best thing to happen to her, or maybe just the biggest. It was fuzzy, hard to pull him away from everything else. It had all happened so fast, but she was sure he was at the top of it all. He had been sweet since the beginning, even when her hair had stood on end whenever he was near. He'd always been out when she had wandered around at night and took the way she snapped at him. He'd been perhaps the first Templar to treat her like a real person even when she had been a beast. Perhaps it was because he _hadn't_ been one. She supposed she wanted to cry, but tears never came easily to her.

“ _I love you,”_ she mouthed against his chest. His skin tasted like sweat and she could feel his heart beat right next to her, his skin jumping slightly.

He pressed his face harder into her hair and breathed in, his body curling around hers. There was a closeness there that she had only ever felt with him, something in the way his body fit hers. It was like they snapped into place so easily, like there was no other purpose either was made for past just holding the other. Her heart was beating in her head, loud and heavy along with that lyrium cloud that covered her like a blanket. He was warm and familiar and she had never felt better in her entire life than she did in his arms.

He fell asleep first, for once. She noticed when his breathing slowed and he started with those small snores he made. It was cute, and the way he relaxed around her let her huddle into his neck and breathe in the warm air there until she dropped off too, dreams hazy and wonderful. She wanted _him,_ wholly and completely, wanted to be so tangled up with him that you couldn’t pull anything away without getting a piece of them both. Right before she fell asleep, she supposed it was true already.

The morning brought harsh sun and screaming birds that only exacerbated the dull ache at the base of Clara’s skull. She woke up after Cullen again, his fingers gently running up and down her back until he resorted to tickling her awake. He ceased the torture once she made it clear she wasn’t in a proper state to withstand that kind of assault without freezing him to the mattress.

Dressing was slow that morning, the entire compound still passed out in various crevices from the night before. Cullen didn’t seem in any kind of rush to be out and Clara didn’t really see a reason she couldn’t linger around and watch him dress. She had already put herself mostly back into place. Her dress was on and her scarf sat on the bed, Cullen’s coin hanging down on its chain between her breasts.

“Varric says you polish your armor too much,” she stated from the edge of the bed as she watched him fasten his greaves.

He looked at her over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “He’s been wearing the same tunic and coat for the past ten years.”

“He says he’s “maintaining his brand recognizability”.”

“And I’m the commander of an army, not a writer who describes boats as being “boat-shaped”,” he said with a snort as he turned back to the buckles. He finished and reached for his gorget, sighing as he thumbed the hooks on it. “Could you help me with this one?”

He didn’t really seem to need the help, but he had said he liked it when she helped him dress. Truth be told, she enjoyed it too. It was close and she was helping him with something he took so personally. “Sure, love,” she murmured, unfolding her legs and walking towards him.

She did the hooks in the back and stayed behind him to do the buckles on his breastplate that he had a hard time reaching. He spoke quietly of what he had to do for the day as she worked the fasteners, his hands busy adjusting the plate as she tightened the straps. Bringing up work wasn’t exactly her favorite thing, but Cullen had always had a hard time tearing himself away. Even when they relaxed together, sometimes he would lie there and go over reports or brief her on how the troops were coming. It was something about him he’d probably never break.

She let him put on his surcoat by himself. She sat on the edge of his trunk to watch him shrug into it, eyes following his hands as he wrapped it around himself and left the front open. He did spend a terrible amount of time cleaning it; she could see her reflection in his breastplate. Perhaps blinding his adversaries was another battle tactic he liked to employ.

“You never wear your helmet,” she said softly as he adjusted the mantle on his shoulders. “It’s just gathering dust over there.” She gestured to where it sat atop a bookcase, impressive but clearly dull from disuse.

He blinked at her for a moment, hands lost in the fur of his mantle. “Do you want me to wear it more?” he asked, confusion apparent.

Clara shrugged. “It feels like a waste.”

“Believe it or not, a helm like that makes it clear I’m high in rank,” he started, going back to adjusting his surcoat. “On the field it’s not just bad, it’s also impractical. I’m a greater target and it has a lot of pieces that could get hooked on something or get dented the wrong way, and it obscures my vision quite a bit.”

She flushed in embarrassment. After all of those years reading and then the past two of outfitting herself and her companions, she felt an odd kind of stupidity at not having surmised it already. “Ah,” she said shortly, looking at the floorboards. “It _is_ a waste, then.”

“I wear it on special occasions.” He finished righting himself and then tugged his gloves on, looking at her sideways. “Is there something on your mind?” he asked after watching her for a moment.

She shrugged, meeting his eyes. “Not really. I said what was on my mind last night.”

He blushed at her mention of it and she felt a small smile creeping onto her face. “So you still _mean_ it all?” he asked.

She nodded, knowing he needed that extra validation. He was cautious, more afraid of making a fool of himself than of his feelings not being returned. After so _many_ months of dancing around each other, knowing that she had to make the first move and nail what he was thinking had put them on even ground. If she asked, he would tell her because he was too honest to do anything else. It was as _simple_ as that.

“We should talk more about it,” he said, coming closer to pull her up so he could grab onto her hands.

He was looking at her with those beautiful eyes and she was so _glad_ he never took advantage of the power they had over her because he could ask her to do anything while he was looking at her like this and she would be incapable of saying anything other than yes. “You have to make a plan?” she asked teasingly.

He reached a finger out and hooked it on the silverite chain she wore, tugging on it until his coin slid out. His face softened and warmed at seeing her wearing it, his expression explicitly _happy._  She closed her hand around his and he looked at her, those _gorgeous_ eyes killing her.

“Perhaps I will. I also liked talking about it with you,” he murmured, bending down to peck her lips.

“Your excitement certainly was nice,” she said softly, leaning up on her toes to follow his lips.

He chuckled and kissed her again, quickly and sweet. “It _is_ exciting,” he said breathlessly. “It’s like there are suddenly all of these possibilities that I never even let myself think about before.”

Her throat was tight as he spoke what she was thinking. She could picture a future with him so sharply is hurt, acute and full of everything she had never even bothered to think she couldn’t have. The Circle left no options for love or even closeness and she had never been one for attachment. Now she was held fast, but there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

She kissed him in his loft after he said that because she was positive she wouldn’t be able to speak. It was deep, her mouth searching hard against his own. His coin was stuck between their bodies, the shape pressed hard into her by the cold metal of his breastplate. He was _wonderful_ , lyrium and armor polish smell relaxing her so she sagged against him, hands burying in the thick fur of his mantle. He held her upright and it didn’t matter that the plate of his armor jammed into her uncomfortably. She’d bend herself in half for him and she loved the way he held her and looked at her and smiled when she came around. After years of being the girl boys went to for quick fumbles in the dark, it was overwhelming to be the _one_ he loved being around. She was a _person_ around him, more than a mage, or the Inquisitor, or the girl who'd dismembered a Templar.

He _loved_ her, and she shook in his grasp from that simple fact.

They parted after that. He went to the documents on his desk, paperwork already turning up now that Skyhold was set to become an even bigger hub than it already was. He kissed her quickly again up against the door to the battlements before she left, dizzy and flushed and grinning like a fool.

The Inquisitor peered over the balustrade at the mess below, people already collapsing tables and scraping others out of the mud. She went down to join the effort, pulling Bull and Sera up and dusting them off before she ordered them to do something about the smell of stale beer that seemed to be a part of them at this point. They left and returned soon after, smelling slightly better, before finishing off the job with the rest of the workers.

The day itself was easy for the Inquisitor. No one bothered her much, instead letting her rest and collect herself. The silence was nice, a simple one she spent with Dorian in the library. He didn’t press her for much, just sat with her in peace. She left him at dinner for Cassandra, a few quick words with the Seeker before she left her with the book she was hunched over in favor of Cullen’s warm little office.

She spent the night with him again, wrapped around him so tightly she feared she would snap. His name felt wonderful in her mouth and she loved the way it rang off the rafters when he managed to make her scream it. Lying with him afterward, though, the places he had touched her still so warm, _that_ was the best part. He usually laughed while she wiped her eyes, body still shaking. He always peppered kisses over her back, lips insistent on brushing every freckle on her skin. It was good, more than she deserved but she wasn’t going to give it up for anything.

The next morning was when everything shifted.

Dignitaries started showing up and Leliana was put on tracking down Solas while Josephine juggled the party plans and meetings for the Inquisitor. The days of those remaining two weeks were fast, stuffed with interactions that left Clara too exhausted to do more than fall into her bed and sleep. She usually woke up in Cullen’s arms, but she didn’t have time to do anything more than give him a few murmured words and lazy kisses before a page came to retrieve her.

The party reared up suddenly and horribly, the day nearly smacking her with how quickly it rushed in. Leliana getting elected Divine didn’t really come as a shock, but it wasn’t expected either. In addition to party preparations, they now had to consider a replacement for her. Clara’s gut tied itself into knots over that, but she pushed them away. She didn’t want to cater to them and she had too much to focus on without adding another issue to the pile.

The day of the party, her advisers had her herded outside the compound as the party started, nobles and allies waiting for her in the main hall. Her inner circle was outside with her, making the march back in as the gathered crowd screamed and clapped. Though the entire thing was a staged return, the reactions were genuine, and she couldn’t stop the smile that cropped up on her face as she scaled the steps and into Cullen’s waiting embrace.

It was all sweet, a step towards finality. Leliana pulling her aside to inform her of Solas’ whereabouts, or lack thereof, didn’t even put a damper on the night. There was an ache inside of the Inquisitor for the disappearance of someone she considered a friend, but the room was too warm and she was being swarmed by too many hands to focus on it. She had a party to enjoy, her _own_ party.

She seemed to speak with everyone, the night dragging on until she was escaping to her room, looking over her shoulder to catch Cullen following her. She hid her grin behind a hand as she went up the stairs, hearing his heavy footsteps following her. In her room, he caught up and he looked so _proud_ of her, face a mix of adoration and respect. In all honesty, she felt the same.

Looking out over the balcony at the mountains felt like a storybook ending, something she'd only heard of in those cheesy romance novels or in bard songs. The sun had set beautifully and his arms were warm around her. His chin fit perfectly on her shoulder and she leaned back into his embrace easily. It was all so _perfect,_  so distinctly different from everything she had been about years ago. _She_ was different now.

He followed her back inside, the party still murmuring up from her stairwell. She wandered around the room, soaking up the peace while he sat back in her desk chair.

“You know,” she said softly, breaking the silence. She lifted one of her books from her shelf and flipped it open, not really looking at the words. “We never talked more about what we wanted.”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” he said from the other side of the room. He sounded relaxed, at ease. Her heart shook at how hard he’d always pushed himself and how he was allowing himself this rest.

“If we did get married,” she started, “we’d have to meet each other’s family’s.”

“Mia says she wants to meet you.”

It was selfish to feel her pride swell at that, but she put the feeling aside. “My brother’s letter returned. He insists that I visit and that you accompany me.”

“I’d love meet your family,” he said and she could hear the way he smiled.

“You’ll change your tune once you meet them,” she replied, setting the book back. She picked a new one and wandered over to her desk, sitting on the edge and leafing through the pages. “Now, kids. You know if we have them, there’s a chance they’ll be mages.”

That had been a sudden fear of hers. She knew he didn’t love her in _spite_ of her magic, he loved her and the magic came with her. But children were different, he still had that old duty that might tell him they needed to go, the Circle was better. Though the chances of the Circle surviving with Leliana as Divine were slim, luck had never been in her favor. Perhaps his coin would bring her some.

“I know,” he said simply and, bless him, the way he didn’t seem affected at all eased her mind. He wasn’t a Templar and there wasn’t a Circle anymore. Her fears seemed unwarranted in the face of his answer, but still, she pushed.

“That doesn’t bother you?” she asked, turning to look at him.

He shook his head, expression soft as he read the shadows of fear in her eyes. “The Inquisition isn’t going anywhere, and we have the best mages in Thedas with us. Without the Circle, we’re the only option for training mages.”

“You’d still love them the same even if they had magic?” She wanted it to sound like teasing, but still, she was _scared_. She had so much to lose even still.

His face waxed pained and her heart broke, her hands stretching out to him. He shook his head and grabbed her reaching fingers, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her skin. “Things need to change,” he said softly. “The Circles weren’t working properly but I have faith in Leliana. Magic wouldn’t change how I felt about my own children.”

Her chest loosened some at that. “We’re not sending them anywhere,” she said firmly, laying down the rules. “I’m not doing what my family did to me and my little brother.”

He nodded. “Like I said, the Inquisition is the best place to train a mage and probably will be for years.”

She let out a sigh of relief and pulled her hands away, walking around the room to ease her nerves. He let her go, understood her need to walk it all off. She was nervous, worried for what she didn’t even have yet. That she was so scared already told her how badly she wanted all of it and she was stunned yet again by her own capacity for _emotion_.

“You know,” he said after a few minutes. “We have to do something about all of these proposals.”

She came back to herself and looked at him. He was moving through the new marriage proposals she had received, a flood of nobles clamoring to jam their hands into the Inquisition. “Don’t you need to still come up with a plan?”

The smirk he gave her made her shiver. “Maybe I have one already. These letters should stop, though. Frankly, they’re embarrassing.” He shuffled them around and pushed them away with a noise caught between disgust and a sigh.

“I’m sure they’ll stop once you put that plan of yours into action,” she said, mind easing from her thoughts as she walked back over. He opened his arms for her and she sat on his lap, her head resting on his mantle.

He didn't give a answer, just grinned and pressed his face into her hair. It was nice, sweet, lovely, he was so _good._  She didn’t know what he had in store but just sitting with him now was good. He was good at putting her fears to rest, didn’t leave her wanting for much anymore save the future.

It was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! Sorry it took so long, but my computer was fried and it took three weeks to get repaired. I've been working hard to get this out now because I honestly just wanted to finish it so badly so I could start writing other things. I would love it if you told me how it all went because hey, it's finally done!
> 
> On that note, I'm going to be doing a series of oneshots about them now, mostly set after game and from Cullen's perspective, so stay tuned for that, I already have half of the first one written. I'm also taking prompts again now that my computer is working at my writing tumblr [jellopunch](http://jellopunch.tumblr.com) so you can submit some or just talk or whatever. I have a few drafts on there already, among other things, so check if out if you'd like.
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking around through this, it means a _lot_.


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